PR 

4202 
R65 
1987 


N  THE  \     UTCHEON 


R     DRAMAS 


3y  ROBERT    BROWNING 


'  EU   BY 


WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  A.M. 


HELOISE  £.  HERSEY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Miss  Carolyn  Calvert 


V- 


<\ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/blotinscutcheonoOObrowiala 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


A  BLOT  IN  THE  'SCUTCHEON 

AND 

OTHER   DRAMAS. 


By    ROBERT  ^ROWNING. 


Edited,  with  Notes, 

BV 

William  j.  rolfe,  litt.d., 

AND 

HELOISE    E.    HERSEY. 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN      BOOK     COMPANY 


Copyright,  1887,  by  Harpbr  &  Brothers. 

t 
A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon. 

W.  p.    5 


PR 


^4T 


PREFACE. 


This  book  has  been  prepared  on  the  same  plan  as  the  Select  Poems  of 
Browning,  edited  by  Miss  Hersey  and  myself  last  summer.  The  intro- 
duction is,  however,  much  longer  than  in  that  volume,  and  contains  con- 
siderable matter  the  substance  of  which  would  otherwise  have  been  given 
in  the  notes. 

The  grateful  acknowledgments  of  the  editors  are  due  to  Mr.  Lawrence 
Barrett  for  his  interesting  letter  on  the  production  of  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon  under  his  management,  and  for  other  information  on  the  sub- 
ject which  is  incorporated  in  the  notes ;  also  to  Col.  T.  W.  Higginson 
for  the  use  of  his  copy  of  Bells  and  Pomegranates  in  collating  the  texts. 

W.J.  R. 

Cambridge,  April  14,  1887. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Introduction 9 

I.  Browning's  Dramas 9 

II.  Critical  Comments  on  Browning  as  a  Dramatist 15 

III.  Critical  Comments  on  "A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon"  40 

IV.  Critical  Comments  on  "Colombe's  Birthday" 44 

V.  Critical  Comments  on  "A  Soul's  Tragedy" 55 

A  BLOT    IN   THE   'SCUTCHEON 61 

Act  1 63 

"  11 '. ; 82 

"in 98 

COLOMBE'S    BIRTHDAY 113 

Act  1 115 

"  II 128 

•  III 141 

"  IV 155 

"    V 170 

A  SOUL'S  TRAGEDY 185 

Act  1 187 

"   II 201 

Notes 219 


INTRODUCTION. 


I.  browning's  dramas. 

Browning's  career  as  a  dramatist  is  included  between  the 
years  1837  and  1845.  The  eight  dramas  followed  each  other 
in  quick  succession  in  this  order: 

Strafford,  1837  ;  Pippa  Passes,  1841 ;  King  Victor  and  King 
Charles,  1842  ;  The  Return  of  the  Druses  and  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,  1843 ;  Colombe's  Birthday*,  1844.;  Luria  and  A 
Soul's  Tragedy,  1845. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  three  plays  included  in  this 
volume  come  from  the  later  and  riper  period  of  Browning's 
dramatic  utterance. 

Before  1837  Browning  had  published  Pauline  and  Para- 
celsus. Strafford,  the  first  drama,  was  written  at  the  request 
of  Mr.  Macready,  made  half  by  accident.  Mr.  Gosse,  in  an 
excellent  article  in  The  Century  for  December,  1881,  gives  an 
account  of  the  interview  which  resulted  in  the  connection 
between  the  actor  and  the  poet,  and  of  their  subsequent 
relations. 

With  whatever  impulsiveness  Browning  began  to  write  dra- 
ma, he  abandoned  the  form  with  deliberation.  The  dedica- 
tion of  Luria  to  Walter  Savage  Landor  opens  thus:  "  I  dedi- 
cate this  last  attempt  for  the  present  at  dramatic  poetry  to  a 
great  dramatic  poet."  It  has  been  said  that  the  complica- 
tions incident  to  the  stage  presentation  of  the  plays,  the 
disagreements  between  author  and  manager,  and  the  con- 


io  INTRODUCTJOX. 

sequent  half- success  of  Browning's  plays,  were  the  chief 
causes  for  his  abandonment  of  the  drama.  All  these  may 
have  had  their  share  in  the  result ;  but  no  one  can  read  these 
plays  in  chronological  order  without  feeling  that  there  was 
an  inward  as  well  as  an  outward  reason  for  the  change.  The 
work  grows  less  and  less  dramatic,  and  approaches  more 
and  more  the  form  which  Browning  has  made  so  entirely 
his  own  —  the  dramatic  monologue.  In  Colombo  s  Birthday 
and  A  Soul's  'Tragedy  there  is  scarcely  anything  deserving 
the  name  of  action.  There  is  not  even  development  of 
character  brought  about  by  the  complex  influences  of  plot 
and  counterplot.  There  is,  instead,  a  single  soul  put  into 
a  single,  supreme  situation.  Upon  its  choice  in  that  crisis 
depends  all  its  after- history.  This  motif  is  familiar  to  all 
readers  of  Mr.  Browning's  later  short  poems.  It  is  the  fa- 
vorite theme  there.  The  Statue  and  the  Bust,  "  Childe  Roland 
to  the  Dark  Tower  Came,"  The  Confessional,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
crowd  instantly  to  the  memory  as  random  illustrations  of 
this  method  of  depicting  life. 

In  the  later  dramas  the  dialogue  grows  more  weighty. 
There  is  little  of  the  passion  that  gives  its  tremendous  force 
to  the  scene  between  Ottima  and  Sebald  in  Pippa  Passes, 
and  none  of  the  sprightliness  which  makes  Guendolen  the 
life  of  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  These  are  supplanted  by 
steady  poetic  fervor  and  lofty  thought 

But  even  the  earliest  of  these  dramas — Strafford  and  Pip- 
pa  Passes,  for  example — have  a  quality  which,  for  want  of  a 
better  name,  we  must  call  reiiiotcness.  As  compared  with  the 
men  and  women  of  Shakespeare,  these  are  removed  from  us 
by  a  perceptible  distance.  A  marked  difference  is  notice- 
able in  the  various  plays  of  Shakespeare  in  this  respect.  rJhc 
Tempest  is  much  more  remote  than  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 
though  both  deal  with  situations  unusual  to  our  experience. 
It  is  easy  to  see  that,  in  some  plays,  for  a  definite  artistic 
reason,  the  characters  act  their  parts  as  if  on  a  deep  stage 


INTRODUCTION.  II 

at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  audience ,  while  in  oth- 
ers they  crowd  up  to  the  very  footlights  to  speak  to  us. 

Browning  is,  even  in  his  early  career,  more  in  love  with 
this  effect  of  remoteness  than  Shakespeare,  and  it  becomes 
finally  his  most  noticeable  characteristic.  In  A  Soul's  Trag- 
edy the  characters  are  so  real  as  to  be  almost  identified  with 
our  own  selves,  yet  we  see  them  at  a  distance  so  great  that 
one  feels  the  stage  to  be  the  clouds  of  heaven,  over  which 
the  actors  walk  as  on  a  pavement. 

In  the  Introduction  to  Pippa  Passes,  in  the  previous  vol- 
ume of  Selections  in  this  series,  we  called  attention  to  Mr. 
Browning's  indifference  to  the  ordinary  requirement  that  the 
dramatis  persona:  shall  speakj7/_r4<£ru<.7<;/-.  He  .simply  ignores 
the  demand.  Pippa  soliloquizes  like  a  poet  at  whose  feet 
Shelley  might  have  sat ;  Colombe,  a  mere  girl,  talks  like  the 
wisest  of  philosophers  ;  Tresham  finds  time  and  breath  for 
a  flight  of  the  imagination  when  he  has  the  news  of  Mer- 
toun's  death  to  impart  to  Mildred.  But  all  this,  which  could 
never  have  been  done  by  Shakespeare,  is  a  part  of  Brown- 
ing's method,  and  must  be  judged  as  such.  He  does  not 
crudely  or  ignorantly  pursue  it.  He  conceives  the  office  of 
the  poet  to  be  the  expression  of  the  feelings,  thoughts,  and 
aspirations  of  dumb  humanity.  His  analyses  will  not  be,ar 
the"  glare  of  the  footlights,  but  they  bear  the  light  of  the  soul. 
"Were  we  not  dumb  from  our  birth,  we  should  so,  speak," 
his  creations  seem  to  say  to  us  We  can  do  a  poet  no  great- 
er injustice  than  to  set  up  a  false  standard  by  which  to  try 
him.  Shakespeare  suffered  this  posthumous  martyrdom  for 
years  at  the  hands  of  the  admirers'  of  the  classic  school ; 
but  at  last  we  judge  him  after  his  own  deserts. 

The  fact  that  Shakespeare  is  the  only  name  suggested  as 
we  try  to  deal  with  Browning's  dramatic  quality  is  itself  a 
testimony  to  the  grade  of  his  work.  If  the  first  drama  in 
this  book  does  not  convince  the  reader  of  Browning's  right 
to  be  judged  as  seriously  as  Shakespeare,  then   we  much 


12  IXTRODUCTION. 

overrate  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  But  those  of  us  who  have 
learned  to  prize  Browning  may  remember  that  his  is  not 
the  first  drama  which  has  "pleased  not  the  million,"  has 
been  "caviare  to  the  general,"  though  "an  excellent  play, 
well  digested  in  the  scenes,  set  down  with  as  much  mod- 
esty as  cunning." 

While  this  volume  was  in  preparation  one  of  the  editors 
begged  an  interview  with  Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  asking  him  various  questions  about  his  experience  in 
the  production  of  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.  The  play  was 
originally  brought  out  in  London,  under  Macready's  man- 
agement, with  Mr.  Phelps  in  the  role  of  Tresham.  With  this 
exception,  Mr.  Barrett  has  the  honor  of  being  the  only  actor 
who  has  tested  the  possibilities  of  the  play  on  the  stage. 

He  took  at  once  the  most  cordial  interest  in  the  forthcom- 
ing book,  and  was  ready  to  give  a  detailed  account  of  the 
changes  which  had  been  made  in  the  play  for  the  stage,  and 
of  its  success.  He  grew  so  eloquent  while  talking  of  Brown- 
ing as  a  dramatist  that  the  editor  expressed  regret  at  being 
unable  to  reproduce  verbatim  that  part  of  the  interview.  On 
this  Mr.  Barrett,  with  characteristic  enthusiasm,  offered  to 
put  his  views  into  writing  for  our  benefit.  The  letter  which 
was  the  result  of  this  offer  is  valuable  not  only  from  being 
the  only  available  testimony  to  the  play  from  an  experienced  . 
actor,  but  also  as  coming  from -a  trusted  friend  of  Mr.  Brown- 
ing.* It  is  now,  with  Mr.  Barrett's  consent,  given  a  place 
here : 

"  I  had  learned  to  value  Browning  as  a  dramatic  poet  be- 
fore I  knew  that  he  was  not  so  considered  by  his  critics.  In 
the  midst  of  a  reading  which  had  only  professional  aims  in 

*  The  various  points  in  the  play  altered  or  omitted  in  Mr.  Barrett's  pro- 
duction, and  the  history  of  its  American  presentation,  will  be  given  in  the 
Notes. 


INTRODUCTION. 


J3 


view  my  attention  was  called  to  this  poet  by  one  who  shares 
his  genius  in  a  remarkable  degree,  not  only  as  a  dramatic 
poet,  but  as,  indeed,  our  only  American  dramatic  poet  in  its 
highest  sense — George  H.  Boker. 

"  I  had  heard  My  Last  Duchess  and  ///  a  Gondola  read  most 
eloquently  by  Mr.  Boker,  and  I  then  turned  to  the  poet's 
works  to  find  for  myself  the  greatest  of  dramas  in  A  Blot  in 
the  ''Scutcheon.  While  I  was  at  once  arrested  by  the  majesty 
of  the  verse,  my  mind  was  more  attracted  by  the  dramatic 
quality  of  the  story,  which  stamped  the  author  at  once  as  a 
master  of  theatric  form  of  narration  —  the  oldest  and  the 
greatest  of  all  forms. 

"  I  saw  in  Thorold  a  clear  and  perfectly  outlined  character 
suited  to  stage  purposes ;  in  Mildred  and  Mertoun  a  pair 
of  lovers  whose  counterparts  may  be  found  only  in  the  im- 
mortal lovers  of  Verona,  Juliet  and  Romeo,  while  they  are 
as  distinctly  original  as  those  of  Shakespeare  ;  and  in  Guen- 
dolen  a  revival  of  Imogen  herself.  I  saw  that  the  play,  like 
many  plays  of  the  earlier  dramatists  as  well  as  those  con- 
temporary with  this  production,  was  written  for  an  age  when 
the  ear  of  the  auditor  was  more  attentive  than  the  eye,  and 
when  the  appliances  of  the  stage  were  less  ample  than  now; 
and  I  saw  that,  with  a  treatment  of  the  text  such  as  all  stage 
managers  have  freely  given  even  to  the  plays  of  the  greatest 
of  all  dramatists,  the  Blot  in  the  ' 'Scutcheon  would  take  a  front 
rank  as  an  acting  play. 

"With  this  idea  I  awaited  my  approaching  visit  to  Lon- 
don, in  the  hope  that  I  might  meet  the  poet  and  persuade 
him  to  make  certain  slight  alterations,  or  permit  me  to  stage 
it  in  the  modern  way.  I  found  him  as  eager  for  the  glory 
of  the  theatre  as  when  he  produced  his  Strafford,  forty  years 
before,  and  while  he  was  unable,  as  he  said,  to  go  over  the 
text  extensively  to  meet  the  stage  requirements,  he  would 
gladly  consent  to  its  presentation  with  the  ordinary  changes 
which  the  stage  manager  makes  in  such  matters. 


M 


I.XTKODUCTIOX. 


••  I  had  gained  only  a  part  of  my  purpose,  but  I  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  such  license  as  he  gave  me  ;  and  the  re- 
sult was  that,  with  a  few  verbal  inversions  and  a  slight  cut- 
ting of  the  text,  the  play  was  given  in  Washington  before  a 
most  distinguished  audience  with  remarkable  effect,  and  it 
has  since  taken  its  place  in  my  repertoire  with  the  other 
great  plays  of  kindred  dramatists. 

"The  difficulties  have  been  in  finding  proper  persons  to 
represent  the  parts.  Mertoun  and  Mildred  are  especially 
hard  to  fill,  but  in  Mr.  Mosley  and  in  Miss  Allen  these  char- 
acters had  adequate  representatives,  while  the  Guendolen 
of  Miss  Gale  and  the  Gerald  of  Mr.  Rogers  were  portraits 
worthy  of  the  author. 

"  Looking  back  over  the  literary  and  biographical  history 
of  the  past  half-century,  no  event  seems  to  have  borne  great- 
er misfortune  to  the  stage  and  the  drama  generally  than  the 
misunderstanding  between  Mr.  Browning  and  Mr.  Macready 
over  the  initial  performance  of  this  play.  It  is  all  the  more 
to  be  regretted  that  it  arose  from  no  ill-intent  on  the  part  of 
either;  but  it  drove  from  the  stage  a  poet  who  only  needed 
the  experience  at  the  manager's  table  which  all  the  great 
dramatists  have  found  so  valuable  to  have  given  us  a  new 
gallery  of  stage  portraits.  Here  was,  again,  a  poet  whose 
thoughts  fell  at  once  into  the  dramatic  form,  whose  charac- 
ters unfolded  themselves  by  act  and  speech,  whose  treat- 
ment of  subject  involved  a  rising  interest  and  a  progressive 
movement,  terminating  in  an  adequate  denouement,  while  the 
verse  bore  the  impress  which  lives  in  Shakespeare  and  his 
contemporaries,  and  in  '  Marlowe's  mighty  line,'  an  heir  to 
the  fellowship  of  those  writers  who  have  made  the  drama's 
history  sublime  and  achieved  the  highest  fame. 

"  A  little  familiarity  with  the  mechanism  of  the  theatre, 
such  as  Shakespeare,  Al fieri,  or  Goldoni  had,  such  as  all 
the  successful  dramatists  have  had,  and  we  should  possess 
great  plays  as  well  as  great  poems  from  the  pen  of  Robert 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


Browning.  Then  the  grand  traits  of  his  two  heroines  in  the 
dramatic  poem  In  a  Balcony  would  have  shone- in  the  theat- 
rical frame  resplendent  with  the  Antoinette  of  Giacometti  or 
the  Ophelia  and  Portia  of  Shakespeare  ;  while  the  Flight  of 
the  Duchess  and  other  remarkable  poems  would  have  obeyed 
the  grand  laws  of  the  dramatic  form,  and  gone  into  line  with 
the  creations  of  those  great  poets  with  whom  only  Browning 
may  be  classed — '  the  immortal  names  that  were  not  born 
to  die.'  Lawrence  Barrett." 

II.  CRITICAL    COMMENTS    ON    BROWNING   AS    A    DRAMATIST. 

[From  James  Russell  Lowell1  s  Paper  on  Browning.*] 
Are  we  to  suppose  that  the  genius  for  poetry  is  entirely 
exhausted?  Or  would  it  not  rather  be  wiser  to  admit  as  a 
possibility  that  the  poems  we  are  criticising  may  be  new  and 
great,  and  to  bestow  on  them  a  part  at  least  of  that  study 
which  we  dare  not  refuse  to  such  as  have  received  the  war- 
rant of  time?  The  writings  of  those  poets  who  are  estab- 
lished beyond  question  as  great  are  constantly  inculcating 
upon  us  lessons  of  humility  and  distrust  of  self.  New  depths 
and  intricacies  of  meaning  are  forever  unfolding  themselves. 
We  learn  by  degrees  that  we  had  at  first  comprehended,  as 
it  were,  only  their  astral  spirit.  Slowly,  and,  as  it  might 
seem,  almost  reluctantly,  their  more  ethereal  and  diviner  soul 
lets  itself  become  visible  to  us,  consents  to  be  our  interpreter 
and  companion.  The  passage  which  one  mood  of  our  mind 
found  dark  and  shadowy,  another  beholds  winding  as  be- 
tween the  pillars  of  the  Beautiful  Gate.  We  discover  beauties 
in  exact  proportion  as  we  have  faith  that  we  shall.  And  the 
old  poets  have  this  advantage,  that  we  bring  to  the  reading 
of  them  a  religious  and  trustful  spirit.     The  realm  of  Shake- 

*  North  American  Rei'iew,  April,  1848  (vol.  xlvi.).  The  brief  passage 
from  this  paper  given  in  our  Select  Poems  of  Bi  owning  (p.  19)  is  included 
in  the  present  longer  extract,  from  which  it  could  not  be  omitted  without 
injury  to  the  context. 


1 6  INTRODUCTION. 

speare,  peopled  with  royal  and  heroic  shades,  the  sublime 
solitudes  of  Milton,  bid  us  take  the  shoes  from  off  our  feet. 
Flippancy  is  abashed  there,  and  conceit  startles  at  the  sound 
of  its  own  voice  ;  for  the  making  of  true  poetry  is  almost 
equally  divided  between  the  poet  and  the  reader.  To  the 
consideration  of  universally  acknowledged  masterpieces  we 
are  willing  to  contribute  our  own  share,  and  to  give  earnest 
study  and  honest  endeavor.  Full  of  meaning  was  that  an- 
cient belief,  that  the  spirits  of  wood,  and  water,  and  rock, 
and  mountain  would  grant  only  an  enforced  communion. 
The  compulsion  they  awaited  was  that  of  a  pure  mind  and  a 
willing  spirit. 

The  critic,  then,  should  never  compress  the  book  he  com- 
ments on  within  the  impoverishing  limits  of  a  mood.  He 
should  endeavor  rather  to  estimate  an  author  by  what  he  is 
than  by  what  he  is  not.  He  should  test  the  parts  of  a  poem, 
not  by  his  own  preconceptions,  but  by  the  motive  and  aim 
of  the  whole.  He  should  try  whether,  by  any  possibility,  he 
can  perceive  a  unity  in  it  toward  which  the  several  parts 
centre.  He  should  remember  that  very  many  excellent  and 
enlightened  men,  in  other  respects  good  citizens,  have  es- 
teemed poetry  to  be,  not  only  an  art,  but  the  highest  of  all 
arts,  round  which  the  rest  of  what  we  call  the  fine  arts  re- 
volve, receiving  light  and  warmth.  He  should  consider  that 
only  they  whose  understandings  are  superior  to  and  include 
that  of  the  artist  can  criticise  his  work  by  intuition.  He  should 
feel  that  his  duty  is  to  follow  his  author,  and  not  to  guide 
him.  Above  all  he  should  consider  that  the  effort  which  the 
poor  author  has  made  to  please  the  world  was  very  likely 
not  intended  as  a  personal  insult  to  be  indignantly  resented, 
but  should  make  an  attempt  to  read  the  book  he  is  about  to 
pronounce  judgment  upon,  and  that,  too,  with  a  civil  atten- 
tion. 

The  difference  between  a  true  poet  and  a  mere  rhymer  is" 
not  one  of  degree,  but  of  kind.     It  is  as  great  as  that  be 


INTRODUCTION. 


»7 


tween  the  inventor  and  the  mechanician.  The  latter  can 
make  all  the  several  parts  of  the  machine,  and  adapt  them 
to  each  other  with  a  polished  nicety.  The  idea  once  given, 
he  can  always  reproduce  the  complete  engine.  The  product 
of  his  labor  is  the  highest  finish  of  which  brass  and  steel  are 
capable,  but  it  remains  a  dead  body  of  metal  still.  The  in- 
ventor alone  can  furnish  those  strong,  weariless  limbs  with  a 
soul.  In  his  creative  intellect  resides  the  spirit  of  life  which 
shall  inspire  this  earthborn  Titan,  which  shall  set  him  at 
work  in  the  forge  and  the  mill,  and  compel  him  to  toil  side 
by  side  in  friendly  concert  with  the  forces  of  nature.  There, 
in  the  dark,  patiently  delves  the  hundred-handed  Pyropha- 
gus,  and  it  is  this  primal  breath  of  the  master's  spirit  which 
forever  gives  motion  and  intelligence  to  that  iron  brain  and 
those  nerves  of  steel. 

The  first  thing  that  we  have  to  demand  of  a  poet  is  that 
his  verses  be  really  alive.  Life  we  look  for  first,  and  growth 
as  its  necessary  consequence  and  indicator.  And  it  must  be 
an  original,  not  a  parasitic  life — a  life  capable  of  reproduc- 
tion. There  will  be  barnacles  which  glue  themselves  fast 
to  every  intellectual  movement  of  the  world,  and  seem  to 
possess  in  themselves  that  power  of  motion  which  they  truly 
diminish  in  that  which  sustains  them  and  bears  them  along. 
But  there  are  also  unseen  winds  which  fill  the  sails,  and  stars 
by  which  the  courses  are  set.  The  oak,  which  lies  in  the 
good  ship's  side  an  inert  mass,  still  lives  in  the  progeny  of 
its  chance-dropped  acorns.  The  same  gale  which  bends  the 
creaking  mast  of  pine  sings  through  the  tossing  hair  of  its 
thousand  sons  in  the  far  inland.  The  tree  of  the  mechanic 
bears  only  wooden  acorns. 

Is  Robert  Browning,  then,  a  poet  ?  Our  knowledge  of  him 
can  date  back  seven  years  [from  1848J,  and  an  immortality 
which  has  withstood  the  manifold  changes  of  so  long  a  pe- 
riod can  be,  as  immortalities  go,  no  mushroom.  How  many 
wooden  gods  have  we  seen  during  that  period  transformed 
2 


l8  1XTRODUCT10N. 

into  chopping-blocks,  or  kindled  into  unwilling  and  sputter- 
ing sacrificial  fifes  upon  the  altar  of  other  deities  as  ligneous 
as  themselves  !  We  got  our  first  knowledge  of  him  from  two 
verses  of  his  which  we  saw  quoted  in  a  newspaper,  and  from 
that  moment  took  him  for  granted  as  a  new  poet.  Since 
then  we  have  watched  him  with  a  constantly  deepening  in- 
terest. Much  that  seemed  obscure  and  formless  in  his 
earlier  productions  has  been  interpreted  by  his  later  ones. 
Taken  by  itself,  it  might  remain  obscure  and  formless  still, 
but  it  becomes  clear  and  assumes  definite  shape  when  con- 
sidered as  only  a  part  of  a  yet  unfinished  whole.  We  per- 
ceive running  through  and  knitting  together  all  his  poems 
the  homogeneous  spirit,  gradually  becoming  assured  of  it- 
self, of  an  original  mind.  We  know  not  what  higher  praise 
to  bestow  on  him  than  to  say  that  his  latest  poems  are  his 
best. 

His  earlier  poems  we  shall  rather  choose  to  consider  as 
parts  and  illustrations  of  his  poetic  life  than  as  poems.  We 
find  here  the  consciousness  of  wings,  the  heaven  grasped 
and  measured  by  an  aspiring  eye,  but  no  sustained  flight  as 
yet.  These  are  the  poet's  justifications  of  himself  to  him- 
self, while  he  was  brooding  over  greater  designs.  .  .  . 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  Bells  and  Pomegranates.  And  here 
we  are  met  on  the  very  threshold  by  the  difficulty  of  selec- 
tion. Not  only  are  the  lyrics  singularly  various  in  tone  and 
character,  but,  in  the  dramas,  that  interdependence  of  the 
parts,  which  is  one  of  their  most  striking  and  singular  merits, 
makes  any  passage  taken  by  itself  do  great  injustice  to  the 
author.  These  dramas  are  not  made  up  of  a  number  of 
beauties,  distinct  and  isolate  as  pearls,  threaded  upon  the 
string  of  the  plot.  Each  has  a  permeating  life  and  spirit  of 
its  own.  When  we  would  break  off  any  fragment,  we  cannot 
find  one  which  would  by  itself  approach  completeness.  It 
is  like  tearing  away  a  limb  from  a  living  body.  For  these 
are  works  of  art  in  the  truest  sense.     They  are  not  aggrega- 


INTRODUCTION. 


*9 


tions  of  dissonant  beauties,  like  some  modern  sculptures, 
against  which  the  Apollo  might  bring  an  action  of  trover 
for  an  arm,  and  the  Antinoiis  for  a  leg,  but  pure  statues,  in 
which  everything  superfluous  has  been  chiselled  away,  and 
whose  wonderful  balance  might  seem  tameness  to  the  ordi- 
nary observer,  who  demands  strain  as  an  evidence  of  strength. 
They  are  not  arguments  on  either  side  of  any  of  the  great 
questions  which  divide  the  world.  The  characters  in  them 
are  not  bundles  of  different  characteristics,  but  their  gradual 
development  runs  through  the  whole  drama  and  makes  the 
life  of  it.  We  do  not  learn  what  they  are  by  what  they  say 
of  themselves,  or  by  what  is  said  of  them,  so  much  as  by 
what  they  do  or  leave  undone.  Nor  does  any  drama  seem 
to  be  written  for  the  display  of  some  one  character  which  the 
author  has  conceived  and  makes  a  favorite  of.  No  undue 
emphasis  is  laid  upon  any.  Each  fills  his  part,  and  each,  in 
his  higher  or  lower  grade,  his  greater  or  less  prominence,  is 
equally  necessary  to  the  rest.  Above  all,  his  personages  are 
not  mere  mouthpieces  for  the  author's  idiosyncrasies.  We 
take  leave  of  Mr.  Browning  at  the  end  of  Sordello,  and,  ex- 
cept in  some  shorter  lyrics,  see  no  more  of  him.  His  men 
and  women  are  men  and  women,  and  not  Mr.  Browning  mas- 
querading in  different-colored  dominos.  We  implied  as  much 
when  we  said  that  he  was  an  artist.  For  the  artist-period 
begins  precisely  at  the  point  where  the  pleasure  of  express- 
ing self  ends,  and  the  poet  becomes  sensible  that  his  highest 
duty  is  to  give  voice  to  the  myriad  forms  of  nature,  which, 
wanting  him,  were  dumb.  The  term  art  includes  many  lower 
faculties  of  the  poet ;  but  this  appears  to  us  its  highest  and 
most  comprehensive  definition.  Hence  Shakespeare,  the  tru- 
est of  artists,  is  also  nothing  more  than  a  voice.  We  seek 
in  vain  in  his  plays  for  any  traces  of  his  personal  character 
or  history.  A  man  may  be  even  a  great  poet  without  being 
an  artist.  Byron  was,  through  all  whose  works  we  find  no 
individual,  self-subsistent  characters.     His  heroes  are  always 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

himself  in  so  many  different  stage-costumes,  and  his  Don 
Juan  is  his  best  poem,  and  approaches  more  nearly  a  work 
of  art,  by  just  so  much  as  he  has  in  that  expressed  himself 
most  truly  and  untheatrically. 

Regarding  Mr.  Browning's  dramas  in  this  light,  and  es- 
teeming them  as  so  excellent  and  peculiar,  we  shall  not  do 
him  the  injustice  of  picking  out  detached  beauties,  and  hold, 
ing  them  up  as  fair  specimens  of  his  power.  He  may  be 
surpassed  by  one  contemporary  in  finish,  by  another  in  mel- 
ody ;  but  we  shall  not  try  him  by  comparison,  We  are 
thankful  to  him  for  being  what  he  is,  for  contriving  to  be 
himself  and  to  keep  so.  Why,  in  ordinary  society,  is  it  not 
sometimes  the  solitary  merit  of  Smith,  and  all  that  makes 
him  endurable,  that  he  is  not  exactly  Brown  ?  We  are  quite 
willing  to  be  grateful  for  whatever  gifts  it  has  pleased  God 
to  bestow  on  any  musically-endowed  spirit.  The  scale  is 
composed  of  various  notes,  and  cannot  afford  to  do  without 
any  of  them,  or  to  have  one  substituted  for  another. 

It  is  not  so  much  for  his  expression  of  isolated  thoughts 
as  for  his  power  of  thinking,  that  we  value  Browning.  Most 
readers  prefer  those  authors  in  whom  they  find  the  faculty 
of  observation,  to  those  in  whom  power  of  thought  is  pre- 
dominant, for  the  simple  reason  that  sensation  is  easier  than 
reflection.  By  observation  we  mean  that  quality  of  mind 
which  discriminates  and  sets  forth  particular  ideas  by  and 
for  themselves  alone.  Thought  goes  deeper,  and  employs 
itself  in  detecting  and  exemplifying  the  unity  which  embraces 
and  underlies  all  ideas.  A  writer  of  the  first  class  reaches 
the  mass  of  readers  because  they  can  verify  what  he  says  by 
their  own  experience,  and  we  cannot  help  thinking  tolerably 
well  of  those  who  put  us  in  mind  of  our  own  penetration. 
He  requires  them  only  to  feel.  A  writer  of  the  other  kind 
takes  the  understanding,  and  demands  in  turn  an  exercise 
of  thought  on  the  part  of  his  readers.  Both  of  these  facul- 
ties may,  of  course,  differ  in  degree,  may  be  more  or  less  ex- 


INTRODUCTION.  2 1 

tenia!,  more  or  less  profound,  as  it  may  happen.  They  co- 
exist in  the  same  mind  overlapping  one  the  other  by  a  wider 
or  more  limited  extent.  The  predominance  of  the  one  or 
the  other  determines  the  tendency  of  the  mind.  There  are 
exceptional  natures  in  which  they  balance  each  other  as  in 
Shakespeare.  We  may  instance  Browne  and  Montaigne  as 
examples  in  one  kind,  Bacon  as  an  illustration  of  the  other. 
It  is  because  we  find  in  Browning  eminent  qualities  as  a 
dramatist,  that  we  assign  him  his  place  as  a  thinker.  This 
dramatic  faculty  is  a  far  rarer  one  than  we  are  apt  to  imag- 
ine. It  does  not  consist  in  a  familiarity  with  stage  effect,  in 
the  capacity  for  inventing  and  developing  a  harmonious  and 
intricate  plot,  nor  in  an  appreciation  of  passion  as  it  reveals 
itself  in  outward  word  or  action.  It  lies  not  in  a  knowledge 
of  character,  so  much  as  in  an  imaginative  conception  of  the 
springs  of  it.  Neither  each  of  these  singly,  nor  all  of  them 
together,  without  that  unitary  faculty  which  fuses  the  whole 
and  subjects  them  all  to  the  motion  of  a  single  will,  consti- 
tute a  dramatist.  Among  the  crowd  of  play-writers  contem- 
porary with  Shakespeare,  we  can  find  poets  enough,  but  can 
we  name  three  who  were  dramatists  in  any  other  than  a  tech- 
nical sense  ?  In  endeavoring  to  eliminate  the  pure  dramatic 
faculty,  by  precipitating  and  removing  one  by  one  the  grosser 
materials  which  it  holds  in  solution,  we  have  left  the  Greek 
drama  entirely  out  of  the  question.  The  motive  of  the  an- 
cient tragedy  differs  from  that  of  the  modern  in  kind.  Nor 
do  we  speak  of  this  faculty  as  a  higher  or  lower  one,  but  sim- 
ply as  being  distinct  and  rare. 

[From  Ret:  John  Weiss 's  Review  of  Browning.*] 

We  do  not  find  the  condensed  energy  and  meaning  of  Mr. 

Browning  an  objectionable  trait.     Hamlet  has  to  be  studied 

a  little,  and  we  remember  that  Beethoven's  symphonies  do 

not  possess  us  till  we  have  heard  each  half  a  dozen  times. 

•  Massachusetts  Quartet  ly  Review,  June,  1850  (vol.  iv.  >. 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

Mr.  Browning  seems  to  take  his  poems,  after  writing  them, 
and  crush  them  together  at  both  ends,  till  he  gets  the  well- 
knit  symmetry  and  consistency  of  a  Bedouin  ;  he  succeeds  in 
making  a  sort  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  pemmican.  Some- 
times, indeed,  the  desire  to  produce  something  dense  and 
nervous  gets  only  obscurity  for  its  result  instead  of  an  effect- 
ive vivacity.  When  Mr.  Browning  began  to  write,  we  say 
with  deference,  that  this  was  his  besetting  sin.  .  .  .  The  fan- 
cies throng  to  the  pen's  point,  throwing  clashes  and  commas 
behind  them,  till  they  get  out  of  sight  of  their  arch  instigator 
in  the  first  lines.  We  love  to  linger  over  such  passages, 
grudging  no  time,  till  we  tie  the  two  ends  together :  then 
we  can  enjoy  the  picture  so  munificently  grouped.  It  is  no 
condemnation  of  these  pages  to  say  that  few  people  will  con- 
sent to  bestow  so  much  time  and  labor  upon  them.  The 
lovers  of  a  smooth  poetry,  which  can  be  caught  at  a  glance, 
or  of  an  easy  flow  of  didactic  talk  which  does  not  harass  the 
average  intellect,  cannot  sit  in  judgment  upon  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's involutions  and  lengthy  crescendoes,  for  they  are  not 
the  persons  who  wait  to  see  whether  the  picture,  at  first  so 
confused  and  apparently  destitute  of  a  leading  group  or  idea, 
is  worth  the  contemplation  which  may  finally  reproduce  the 
poet's  point  of  view,  and  thus  call  a  beautiful  order  out  pf 
the  prodigal  chaos.  .  .  . 

The  fast  diminishing  space  admonishes  us  that  we  have 
yet  the  greater  part  of  this  new  archipelago  to  sail  through, 
and  taste  the  different  fruits,  while  we  have  hardly  indicated 
the  beauties  that  remain  behind.  Visit  the  Jardin  des  Plantes 
to  appreciate  the  hopeless  bewilderment  of  the  critic  fairly 
turned  into  Mr.  Browning's  menagerie,  aviary,  flower-garden, 
and  halls  of  relics,  with  the  door  slammed  behind  him.  None 
of  the  plays  have  yet  been  noticed  ;  nothing  said  yet  about 
the  innocent  Pippa,  with  her  holiday  ministry,  a  pure  voice 
of  nature,  Heaven's  opportunity  to  redeem  many  sinful  hearts, 
and  each  of  these  hearts,  too,  worth  our  sympathy ;  no  love 


INTRODUCTION. 


23 


yet  expressed  for  Guendolen,  who  is  God's  grace  and  wom- 
an's fidelity  to  the  erring  Mildred,  and  one  of  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's most  natural  characters,  beckoned  apart  from  the  living 
throng  of  the  street  before  she  has  learned  the  tricks  of  self- 
consciousness  ;  no  hint  of  the  subtle  developments  in  the 
Sours  Tragedy,  with  its  racy  prose,  pitting  sly  papal'  reac- 
tion against  a  patriotism  none  of  the  purest ;  and  not  yet  a 
line  of  Valence's  integrity,  enamoured  of  Colombe,  another 
real  woman,  unspoiled  by  a  year's  splendor,  resigned  to  the 
legal  claimant,  Valence,  the  true  Duke's  generous  rival  in 
love,  but  at  last  the  husband  of  simple  Colombe — Valence, 
the  man,  left  alone  with  her  undisturbed  content  when  the 
courtiers  rushed  like  motes  to  the  new  magnet.  .  .  . 

To  our  perception  this  play  \_Lurid\  is  not  so  artless  and 
human  as  the  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  ;  its  fortunes  do  not  touch 
our  feelings  so  deeply.  Guendolen  and  Mildred  uncover  the 
heart's  well  ;  they  draw  for  us  the  pathos  of  home,  and  the 
same  draught  mingles  sadness  for  the  catastrophes  of  sin 
with  gratitude  for  home's  loyalty  and  mercy.  Yes,  we  thank 
Guendolen  with  our  eyes  and  hearts,  for  she  succeeds  in  as- 
suring us  that  God  will  yet  find  the  suMlied  Mildred  lovable 

Luria  is  a  lesson  ;  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  is  an  experience  ; 
the  one  is  a  drama  ;  the  other  is  a  heart's  or  home's  interior. 
Luria  is  stately  and  inspiring  ;  but  Mildred  and  Guendolen 
are  of  us — women  kiss  them  ;  all  sit  and  weep  with  them.  .  .  . 

Is  it  too  much  to  say  that,  with  this  pen  for  sceptre,  Mr. 
Browning  can  exact  the  homage  of  all  hearts?  He  will  per- 
mit us  to  apply  to  his  conceptions  of  truth  and -beauty  what 
he  says  of  the  chief,  best  way  of  worship  : 

"  Let  me  strive 
To  find  it,  and,  when  found,  contrive 
My  fellows  also  lake  their  share." 

We  deem  that  he  possesses  all  the  gifts  and  the  exuberant 
life  needed  by  the  great  artist,  and  he  makes  us  conscious 
<>l  .1  religiousness  that  can  command  their  services  for  the 


24 


INTRODUCTION. 


good  of  men.  "  Give  the  world  a  direction  toward  the  good," 
Schiller  says  to  the  artist.  "  You  have  given  it  this  direction, 
if  as  a  teacher  you  elevate  its  thoughts  to  the  necessary  and 
eternal ;  if,  while  acting  or  composing,  you  transform  the  nec- 
essary and  eternal  with  an  object  of  its  impulse.  Create  the 
conquering  truth  in  the  modest  stillness  of  your  soul,  array 
it  in  a  form  of  beauty,  that  not  only  thought  may  pay  it  hom- 
age, but  sense  lovingly  comprehend  its  presence." 

Last  words  of  admiration  and  gratitude  linger  on  our  pen. 
We  bespeak  for  every  future  line  of  Mr.  Browning  a  cordial 
welcome  here.  And  it  is  pleasant  to  think  that  he  cannot 
regard  the  warm  personal  friendships  he  has  unconsciously 
established  here  with  indifference.  .  .  . 

"Contrive,  contrive 
To  rouse  us,  Waring  !     Who's  alive? 
Our  men  scarce  seem  in  earnest  now  ; 
Distinguished  names  ! — but  'tis  somehow 
As  if  they  played  at  being  names 
Still  more  distinguished,  like  the  games 
Of  children.     Turn  our  sport  to  earnest." 

\From  "  Putnam 's  Afiigim'/ie."9] 

Robert  Browning's  poetry  is  certainly  very  hard  reading, 
like  Cowley's  and  Dr.  Donne's.  But  the  difference  between 
him  and  such  obscurists  is,  that  with  the  earlier  poets,  both 
the  style  and  the  sentiment  were  equally  conceits — while 
Browning's  style  is  the  naturally  quaint  form  of  a  subtle  or 
sinewy  thought.  In  any  general  classification  of  English 
poetry,  Browning  must  be  ranked  with  the  modern  school 
for  his  profound  reality  and  humanity  and  faithful  reliance 
upon  nature.  In  any  classification  of  poetry  in  general,  he 
is  strictly  a  dramatist  —  the  most  purely  dramatic  genius  in 
English  literature  since  the  great  dramatic  days. 

A  great  deal  of  the  difficulty  in  reading  his  poetry  arises 
from  its  purely  dramatic  conception  and  form.  The  man 
*  April,  1856  (vol.  vii.). 


INTRODUCTION. 


25 


Browning  is  not  to  be-  found  in  his  poems,  except  inferen- 
tially,  like  Shakespeare  in  his  dramas.  The  various  play 
of  profound  passion  is  his  favorite  realm.  He  loves  the 
South,  and  Southern  character,  as  Byron  loved  the  East. 
But  Byron's  passion,  however  fiery  and  intense,  is  a  passion 
of  the  senses — Browning's  is  the  passion  of  the  soul,  includ- 
ing and  deepening  the  other.  In  other  great  English  poets 
there  is  more  daring  indecency ;  but  in  none  such  startling 
audacity  of  passionate  expression.  It  is  the  emotional  nature 
of  man  with  which  he  deals,  and  with  man  everywhere,  and 
under  all  circumstances.  Thus,  while  the  quaint  structure 
of  his  mind,  and  his  rare  and  curious  reading,  show,  for  in- 
stance, his  natural  abstract  sympathy  with  the  fantastic  hor- 
rors of  the  Middle  Ages,  springing,  as  they  did,  out  of  a  kind 
of  cold,  religious  logic ;  yet  he  dashes  in  the  scene  with  a 
living  picturesqueness,  which  invests  it  with  a  lurid  but  ap- 
propriate splendor.  .  .  . 

The  fact  of  occasional  obscurity  is  not  to  be  denied.  Upon 
the  whole,  Browning's  poetry  is  harder  to  follow  than  that 
of  any  other  great  English  poet.  But  the  chief  reason  is, 
that  he  boldly  aims  to  express  what  is,  in  its  nature,  so  eva- 
nescent and  shadowy — to  put  into  words  processes  of  thought 
and  feeling,  so  delicately  inwrought  and  fluctuating  that  only 
sharp  self-observers  and  students  of  human  character  can 
pursue  them.  For  instance,  Luria  and  A  SouPs  Tragedy 
are  like  transverse  sections  of  human  life  and  human  souls. 
As  in  the  wax  physiological  models  every  exquisite  detail  is 
preserved,  so  the  finest  fibres  of  feeling,  so  to  speak — the 
most  intricate,  and,  at  the  same  time,  delicate  convolutions 
of  impulse,  policy,  and  principle — are  laid  open  in  this  po- 
etry. The  poet  shrinks  from  expressing  nothing,  and  there 
is,  therefore,  a  variety  of  the  profoundest  passionate  experi- 
ence in  Browning's  poetry,  not  to  be  surpassed  out  of  Shake- 
speare. 

Critics  complain  that  they  find  no  difficulty  in  understand- 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  Pope  and  Thomson,  and  Cowper  and  Dryden,  and  Gold- 
smith and  Byron  ;  but  the  modern  school,  Keats,  Shelley, 
Coleridge,  Tennyson,  and  Browning,  they  declare  to  be  be- 
yond them.  They  find,  in  the  modern  men,  a  tendency  to 
euphemism,  a  dazzling  range  of  splendid  and  voluptuous 
words,  but  nothing  else.  It  is  contended  that  the  modern 
men  mistake  obscurity  for  profundity,  and  a  glittering  epi- 
thet for  a  beautiful  thought.  Now,  that  Pope  and  the  other 
poets  are,  in  a  certain  sense,  easier  reading  than  the  others, 
is  true  enough.  But  it  is  easier  reading,  because  it  is  easier 
thinking.  Shakespeare  is  no  primer,  nor  so  shallowly  intel- 
ligible. The  greatest  things  are  simplest,  certainly  j  but  ease 
is  not  necessarily  simplicity.  Tom  Moore  never  perplexes 
us  about  his  meaning  ;  but  then,  Tom  Moore  never  has  much 
meaning.  To  insist  that,  if  a  man  has  anything  to  say,  he 
must  say  it  so  that  everybody  can  understand  it,  is  merely 
idle  ;  for  only  experience  can  understand  what  experience 
inspires.  To  complain  of  Browning,  because  he  is  not  so 
intelligible,  at  a  glance,  as  Pope,  is  like  complaining  that 
Plato  is  not  so  easy  as  Steele.  It  is  as  impossible  that 
Browning  should  write  as  Pope  wrote  as  it  is  that  Pope 
should  have  written  like  Byron.  The  truth  is,  that  no  poet's 
style  is  more  profoundly  individual  and  appropriate  than 
Browning's.  The  very  form  of  his  expression  helps  us  often 
to  the  significance  of  the  thought ;  and  when  we  bear  in 
mind  what  the  character  of  his  mental  action  is  ;  how  sud- 
den and  unexpected,  and  vigorous,  and  subtle,  and  romantic  ; 
that  he  is  peculiarly  a  psychologist — it  may  be  better,  instead 
of  calling  him  turgid  and  blind,  and  asking  him  to  say  what 
he  means,  to  reflect  that  he  has  as  much  to  say  as  any  recent 
poet,  and  says  it  as  perfectly,  although  entirely  in  his  own 
way.  .  .  . 

The  power  which  appears  in  the  quaint  and  horrible  po- 
ems of  our  author,  which  is  a  power  working  to  most  legiti- 
mate ends  — for  what  a  prodigious  moral  in  human  history 


INTRODUCTIOX. 


27 


and  development  is  thundered  from  each  of  the  poems  we 
have  quoted — is  no  less  evident  through  all  his  dramas,  dra- 
matic lyrics,  and  pure  love  poems.  Love  is  peculiarly  his 
inspiration.  Not  the  love  of  girls,  or  sick  striplings,  but  the 
terrible  love  of  great,  strong,  passionate  natures.  Of  all 
modern  poets,  Browning  is  the  most  subtle  analyst  of  the 
passion,  and  yet,  singularly  enough,  his  poetry  is  full  of  its 
finest  fire  ;  for  his  knowledge  does  not  come  from  philosoph- 
ical investigation,  but  from  the  acutest  perception.  Akin  to 
this  is  his  remarkable  appreciation  of  the  passion  as  it  ap- 
pears in  women.  No  other  English  poet  but  Shakespeare 
has  given  expression  to  so  many  and  different  moods  of  love. 
He  is  sternly  true  to  nature  and  experience.  The  slight  in- 
fluences that  so  strongly  affect  deep  feeling,  the  inconsisten- 
cies, caprices,  irrationalities,  and  surprises  of  human  love,  are 
shown  by  the  poet  in  their  most  delicate  and  evanescent 
forms  and  relations.  .  .  . 

Browning's  dramas  would  amply  supply  material  for  another 
article.  Our  present  object  has  been  rather  to  show  the  general 
character  and  affluent  variety  of  the  poet's  genius,  and  to  re- 
mind the  reader  that,  if  there  is  much  of  his  verse  which  will 
demand  close  study  to  understand,  there  is  very  much  which 
is  really  as  simple  and  original  and  beautiful  as  any  poetry. 
Browning  is  an  objective  poet  in  an  age  of  subjective  poetry. 
His  heartbeats  strongly  for  the  noblest  truths.  With  all  his  pro- 
found sympathy  with  the  spirit  of  many  countries  and  times,  he 
is  never,  for  a  moment,  recreant  to  the  loftiest  spirit  of  his  own 
age  and  country.  Yet  this  sympathy  never  appears  directly  ; 
never,  by  any  chance,  in  the  way  of  preaching.  He  holds  the 
mirror  to  mediaeval  Germany,  Italy,  France,  and  England,  and 
so  firmly  that  the  picture  is  perfect,  and  is  its  own  criticism. 
He  holds  the  mirror  to  his  own  day  as  truly,  and  the  reflec- 
tion is  a  profound  commentary  upon  the  time.  .  .  . 

A  poet's  poet  he  has  been  called.  But  if  a  poet's  poet, 
then  how  much  a  poet !     We  beg  the  reader  not  to  judge 


28  IXTRODUCTION. 

this  man  unheard,  nor  to  believe  him  only  a  phrase-monger, 
because  some  critics  cannot  slip  along  his  verses  as  smooth- 
ly as  they  do  upon  some  others.  Browning  is  not  less  a  poet 
because  he  is  not  like  other  good  and  true  poets.  He  would 
be  less  a  poet  if  he  were  more  like  them  ;  for  he  would  then 
be  less  original  and  individual.  His  individuality  is  not  a 
spasmodic  use  of  words  for  thoughts ;  but  it  is  the  exquisite 
perception  of  a  strong  and  rich  mind,  using  words  with  a  del- 
icate skill  and  an  inward  music. 

[From  the  "Book  oj  the  Poets,"  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.*} 
It  is  advantageous  for  us  all,  whether  poets  or  poetasters, 
or  talkers  about  either,  to  know  what  a  true  poet  is,  what  his 
work  is,  and  what  his  patience  and  success  must  be,  so  as  to 
raise  the  popular  idea  of  these  things,  and  either  strengthen 
or  put  down  the  individual  aspiration.  "  Art,"  it  was  said 
long  ago,  "  requires  the  whole  man,"  and  "  Nobody,"  it  was 
said  later,  "  can  be  a  poet  who  is  anything  else ;"  but  the 
present  idea  of  Art  requires  the  segment  of  a  man,  and  eve- 
rybody who  is  anything  at  all  is  a  poet  in  a  parenthesis. 
And  our  shelves  groan  with  little  books  over  which  their 
readers  groan  less  metaphorically  ;  there  is  a  plague  of  po- 
ems in  the  land  apart  from  poetry  ;  and  many  poets  who  live 
and  are  true  do  not  live  by  their  truth,  but  hold  back  their 
full  strength  from  Art  because  they  do  not  reverence  it  fully  ; 
and  all  booksellers  cry  aloud  and  do  not  spare,  that  poetry 
will  not  sell ;  and  certain  critics  utter  melancholy  frenzies, 
that  poetry  is  worn  out  forever — as  if  the  morning  star  was 
worn  out  from  heaven,  or  "  the  yellow  primrose  "  from  the 
grass  ;  and  Mr.  D'Israeli  the  younger,  like  Bildad  comfort- 

*  London,  1863.  This  extract  has  a  unique  interest  as  showing  the 
poetic  value  which  Elizabeth  Barrett  gave  to  Mr.  Browning's  work  even 
before  she  knew  him.  The  papers  on  The  English  Poets  were  originally 
printed  in  1842,  in  the  Athenaum.  It  is  scarcely  straining  a  point  to 
suggest  that  Mrs.  Browning's  closing  quotation  applies  as  well  to  Brown- 
ing as  to  Wordsworth. 


INTRO  D  UC  T/OjV. 


29 


ing  Job,  suggests  that  we  may  content  ourselves  for  the  fut- 
ure with  a  rhythmetic  prose,  printed  like  prose  for  decency, 
and  supplied,  for  comfort,  with  a  parish  allowance  of  two  or 
three  rhymes  to  a  paragraph.  Should  there  be  any  whom 
such  a  "New  Poor  Law"  would  content,  we  are  far  from 
wishing  to  disturb  the  virtue, of  their  serenity  ;  let  them  con- 
tinue, like  the  hypochondriac,  to  be  very  sure  that  they  have 
lost  their  souls,  inclusive  of  their  poetic  instincts.  In  the 
meantime  the  hopeful  and  believing  will  hope — trust  on  ;  and, 
better  still,  the  Tennysons  and  the  Brownings,  and  other  high- 
gifted  spirits,  will  work,  wait  on,  until,  as  Mr.  Horn  has  said  : 

"  Strong  deeds  awake, 
And,  clamoring,  throng  the  portals  of  the  hour." 

It  is  well  for  them  and  all  to  count  the  cost  of  this  life  of  a 
master  in  poetry,  and  learn  from  it  what  a  true  poet's  crown 
is  worth  ;  to  recall  both  the  long  life's  work  for  its  sake — 
the  work  of  observation,  of  meditation,  of  reaching  past  mod- 
els into  nature,  of  reaching  past  nature  unto  God  ;  and  the 
early  life's  loss  for  its  sake — the  loss  of  the  popular  cheer, 
of  the  critical  assent,  and  of  the  "  money  in  the  purse."  It 
is  well  and  full  of  exultation  to  remember  now  what  a  silent, 
blameless,  heroic  life  of  poetic  duty  this  man  [Wordsworth] 
has  lived  ;  how  he  never  cried  rudely  against  the  world  be- 
cause he  was  excluded  for  a  time  from  the  parsley  garlands 
of  its  popularity  ;  nor  sinned  morally  because  he  was  sinned 
against  intellectually  ;  nor,  being  tempted  and  threatened  by 
paymaster  and  reviewer,  swerved  from  the  righteousness 
and  high  aims  of  his  inexorable  genius.  And  it  cannot  be 
ill  to  conclude  by  enforcing  a  high  example  by  some  noble 
precepts  which,  taken  from  the  "  Musophilus"  of  old  Danish, 
do  contain,  to  our  mind,  the  very  code  of  chivalry  for  poets- 
"  Be  it  that  my  unseasonable  song 

Come  out  of  time,  that  fault  is  in  the  time  ; 
And  I  must  not  do  virtue  so  much  wrong 

As  love  her  au"ht  the  worse  for  other's  crime. 


3o  INTRODUCTION. 

And  for  my  part,  if  only  one  allow 

The  care  my  laboring  spirits  take  in  this, 

He  is  to  me  a  theatre  enow, 
And  his  applause  only  sufficient  is: 

"All  my  respect  is  bent  but  to  his  brow  ; 

That  is  my  all,  and  all  I  am  is  his, 
And  if  some  worthy  spirits  be  pleased  too, 

It  shall  more  comfort  breed,  but  not  more  will. 
BUT  WHAT  IK  NONE?     It  cannot  yet  undo 

The  love  I  bear  unto  this  holy  skill  ; 
This  is  the  thing  that  I  was  born  to  do, 

This  is  my  scene,  this  part  must  I  fulfil." 

[From  George  Barrett  Smith's  Paper  on  Broivning.*] 

No  contemporary  poet  is  greater  than  the  author  of  The 
Ring  and  the  EooJi,  and  yet  the  world  has  been  very  fickle 
towards  him.  It  reads  him  not,  save  in  the  spasmodic  and 
painful  effort,  and  if  his  popularity  be  measured  by  that  of 
Tennyson  or  Longfellow,  it  may  be  described  as  the  climax 
of  neglect.  His  genius  is  powerful,  but  irritating  ;  his  poems 
are  full  of  entangling  meshes  for  the  unwary  reader ;  they 
are  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  this  desultory  generation.  Men 
like  to  have  the  reputation  of  understanding  him,  but  are 
unwilling  to  go  through  the  necessary  amount  of  intellectual 
labor  for  the  purpose.  Critics  enlarge  upon  his  perversities  of 
thought  and  diction,  and  yet,  when  all  has  been  said  against 
him  that  critical  ingenuity  or  popular  feeling  can  suggest,  it 
is  universally  admitted  that  this  distinguished  poet's  works, 
with  all  their  manifest  defects,  are  charged  with  passages  of 
the  very  loftiest  order  of  poetry.  .  .  .  His  soul  has  always 
been  aflame  with  poetic  thought ;  and  his  ideal  and  goal 
have  never  consisted  in  mere  popular  applause.  He  has 
sung  because  he  must,  and  given  to  his  song  that  articula- 
tion of  which  he  was  capable.  .  .  . 

The  life  of  Browning  has  been  such  as  we  should  wish  to 

*  International  ftcz'iciv,  vol.  vi.  p.  176  fol. 


itiTROD  UC  TION.  3  x 

associate  always  with  the  genuine  poet — quiet,  retired,  une- 
ventful. Though  evidently  a  close  student  of  human  nature, 
his  genius  has  been  nurtured  in  contemplation  rather  than 
in  the  midst  of  those  morbid  forms  of  social  and  mental  ac- 
tivity which  have  dwarfed  and  paralyzed  the  powers  of  so 
many  men  of  letters.  Like  the  oak,  Browning  has  grown  to 
his  present  stature  silently  and  by  assured  natural  stages  ; 
in  retirement  in  Italy,  with  the  solace  and  communion  of 
his  wife  ("  Shakespeare's  daughter,"  as  a  brother  poet  called 
her),  and  since  her  death,  for  many  years  in  England,  he  has 
been  accumulating  those  vast  stores  of  knowledge  which  find 
but  their  merest  indication  in  his  works.  .  .  .  His  friends  are 
among  the  most  distinguished  of  Englishmen  ;  they  know 
his  powers,  his  gifts,  and  his  charms  in  society ;  for  when  we 
say  that  he  has  shunned  the  common  forms  of  mental  and 
social  activity,  it  must  not  be  assumed  that  there  is  no  circle 
whatever  in  society  which  his  genius  has  illumined.  Only 
he  is  no  poser  in  his  works  or  his  life. 

[From  the  "  Christian  Examiner" *] 

Rich  as  are  Mr.  Browning's  powers  of  imagination  and 
description,  his  chief  excellence  lies  in  his  delineation  of  in- 
dividual character  ;  and  we  know  of  no  other  living  poet  who 
so  thoroughly  conceives  or»  so  finely  portrays  the  differing 
shades  of  it  found  in  actual  life.  His  personages  have  a  vi- 
tality and  idiosyncrasy  of  their  own,  while  they  are  always 
true  to  nature,  and  never  degenerate  into  caricatures.  Take 
almost  any  one  of  his  principal  characters,  and  we  at  once 
perceive  this  excellence,  although  we  occasionally  find  them 
dealing  quite  too  much  in  metaphysical  arguments  and  dis- 
cussions about  abstract  ideas.  But,  apart  from  that  defect, 
which  is,  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  inherent  in  nearly  all 
his  creations,  we  have  little  to  object  to  in  his  conceptions 
of  character.  Among  his  female  characters,  the  preference, 
*  May,  1850  (vol.  xlviii.). 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

we  suppose,  will  be  given  to  Pippa,  who  is  one  of  the  sweet- 
est creations  of  modern  poetry.  It  is  impossible  to  resist 
the  beautiful  simplicity  and  purity  of  her  character,  as  it  is 
developed  in  the  few  brief  glimpses  which  we  catch  of  her 
during  her  single  holiday.  Widely  different  from  her  and 
from  each  other  are  the  clear-headed  but  faithful  Polyxena, 
the  gentle  Mildred,  the  spotless  but  affectionate  Guendolen, 
the  fond  mother  of  Luigi,  the  tender-hearted  and  patriotic 
Colombe,  the  devoted  Anael,  the  cunning  Domizia,  and  the 
thoroughly  wicked  Ottima ;  yet  all  are  admirably  conceived 
and  sharply  drawn.  We  at  once  pierce  to  the  very  heart's 
core  of  each  of  them,  and  read  her  whole  disposition  at  a 
glance.  In  his  delineations  of  male  character,  Mr.  Brown- 
ing shows  equal  skill.  Luigi,  Sebald,  Monsignor,  King 
Victor,  King  Charles,  D'Ormea,  Valence,  Thorold,  Austin, 
Henry,  Gerard,  Luria,  Puccia,  Braccio,  and  Tiburzio,  are  all 
living  realities  to  the  mind. 

Mr.  Browning's  mind  is  eminently  dramatic,  and  all  of  his 
works  have  a  dramatic  tone.  Even  his  lyrical  and  narrative 
poems  are  very  properly  denominated  "dramatic  lyrics." 
Most  of  them,  however,  are  dramatic  poems  rather  than 
dramas,  and  might,  just  as  well  have  been  cast  in  a  differ- 
ent form.  They  lack  those  salient  points  and  that  brisk- 
ness of  movement  which  are  needful  in  an  effective  stage- 
play 

Colombo's  Birthday  is  a  sprightly  and  pleasant  dramatic 
sketch,  in  which  the  interest  centres  wholly  in  the  two  prin- 
cipal characters,  and  we  care  little  for  the  accessories.  A 
Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  comes  next,  and  is  undoubtedly  Mr. 
Browning's  masterpiece  ;  but  it  must  be  read  as  a  whole  in 
order  to  be  fairly  appreciated,  for  no  extracts  can  do  justice 
to  its  great  power  and  beauty.  It  possesses  a  simple  and 
massive  grandeur  to  which  none  of  his  other  works  can  lay 
claim.  The  reader's  mind  is  completely  overwhelmed  and  led 
captive  during  its  perusal,  and  he  rises  from  it  with  the  full 


INTRODUCTION. 


33 


conviction  that  no  one  but  a  poet  of  the  highest  order  could 
thus  have  chained  his  attention.  ... 

A  Soul's  Tragedy  is  properly  a  dramatic  poem,  with  little 
incident  and  only  a  slight  attempt  at  characterization.  The 
second  part,  however,  is  full  of  quiet  humor  and  pointed  sat- 
ire. Few  pieces  are  more  characteristic  of  Mr.  Browning's 
mind  than  this  second  part. 

[From  Richard  Henry  Stoddard's  Paper  on  Browning.*} 
The  characteristics  of  Mr.  Browning  are  so  marked,  that 
but  little  critical  sagacity  is  required  to  detect  them.  In- 
deed, they  force  themselves  upon  his  readers,  who  cannot 
escape  them,  except  by  refusing  to  read  him.  He  compels 
attention,  even  when  he  excites  dislike.  The  two  qualities 
which  strike  me  most  in  his  poetry  are :  first,  an  intensifica- 
tion of  the  dramatic  faculty  ;  and,  second,  the  singularity  of 
the  method  by  which  it  is  evolved.  Mr.  Browning  is  the 
greatest  dramatic  poet  since  Shakespeare,  and,  like  Shake- 
speare's, his  art  is  unique.  The  art  of  Shakespeare,  as  I 
understand  it,  is  large,  noble,  and  obvious.  We  are  never 
in  doubt  as  to  his  intention.  There  are  heights  in  him,  per- 
haps, which  few  of  us  can  hope  to  scale,  and  depths  which 
our  plummets  fail  to  sound ;  but,  in  the  main,  he  is  equable. 
We  can  understand  his  characters  and  his  situations.  Ham- 
let is  not  too  profound  for  us,  in  spite  of  the  mist  with  which 
the  critics  have  contrived  to  surround  him  ;  and  we  readily 
perceive  the  difference  between  the  innate  jealousy  of  Leon- 
tes  and  the  deceived  credulity  of  Othello.  Lear,  the  most 
stupendous  of  mortal  creations,  is  a  man  fashioned  like  unto 
ourselves.  Even  Ariel  and  Caliban  are  within  the  range  of 
our  sympathies.  I  do  not  feel  this  to  be  the  case  with  the 
dramatis  persona  of  Mr.  Browning.  Some  few  of  them  I  un- 
derstand, many  I  do  not  pretend  to.  Even  these- last,  how- 
ever, sometimes  give  me  an  insight  into  the  human  nature 
*  Afpleton's  Jourtui!,  Nov.  n,  187 1  (vol.  vi.). 
3 


34 


INTRODUCTION. 


they  do  pot  embody — clews  leading  into  dark  passages  and 
long  labyrinths  —  the  sudden  opening  of  doors,  with  light- 
ning-like glimpses  of  chambers  beyond.  In  an  instant  the 
doors  are  shut,  the  clew  is  dropped,  and  I  am  in  the  dark.  . .  . 

I  have  endeavored  to  indicate  some  of  the  characteristics 
of  Mr.  Browning,  and  by  comparing  his  method  with  that  of 
Shakespeare,  to  show  his  merits  and  his  defects.  The  rela- 
tion which  he  holds  to  the  poets  of  his  time  and  the  place 
which  he  holds  in  English  Literature  are  not  so  readily  de- 
termined. Certain  elements  at  work  in  Poetry  shortly  be- 
fore Mr.  Tennyson  arose  went  far  to  make  him  what  he  is; 
and  of  these,  without  entering  into  particulars,  it  is  sufficient 
to  remark  that  they  existed  in  Keats ;  as,  for  example,  in  his 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  which  is  perhaps  the  most  poetical 
poem  ever  written.  Certain  other  elements  went  to  the 
making  of  Mr.  Browning ;  but  these  are  not  so  easy  to  de- 
tect. They  existed  in  no  author  before  him,  but  in  the  liter- 
ary life  of  the  time,  of  which  they  are  the  result;  a  result  the 
most  unexpected  and,  so  far,  the  least  rewarded. 

The  renaissance  of  English  Poetry  in  the  first  years  of  the 
present  century,  and  the  forms  which  it  chiefly  assumed,  are 
so  well  known  that  it  would  be  a  waste  of  words  to  dwell 
upon  them,  further  than  to  say  that  whatever  the  Form,  the 
Spirit  was  always  that  of  Story,  or  Narrative.  From  the 
days  of  Chaucer,  Narrative  Poetry,  Story  Poetry,  had  slum- 
bered. It  was  awakened  by  Southey,  and  Scott,  and  Byron. 
Dramatic  Poetry  slumbered  also,  from  the  days  of  Shake- 
speare and  his  immediate  successors,  and  many  strove  to 
awaken  it.  Miss  Baillie  wrote  plays,  which  dealt  with  single 
passions.  Coleridge  wrote  a  tragedy;  Wordsworth  wrote  a 
tragedy ;  Shiel,  Milman,  Croly,  Maturin,  Byron,  Miss  Mit- 
ford,  wrote  tragedies,  some  of  which  were  played  with  differ- 
ent degrees  of  success.  There  was  a  demand  for  plays  then, 
as  there  is  now,  and  for  the  same  reason,  that  there  were  act- 
ors who  wanted  plays.     The  actors  of  that  period  were  men 


INTRODUCTION. 


35 


of  genius — the  Kembles,  Kean,  and  others — and  what  they 
sought  was  worthy  of  their  genius ;  what  the  actors  of  the 
present  period  seek  is  worthy,  I  suppose,  of  their  genius.  An 
attempt  was  made  to  revive  the  Poetic  Drama,  and  it  con- 
tinued down  to  the  "little  hour"  of  Talfourd  and  Knowles, 
when  it  was  abandoned.  Mr.  Macready  was  the  last  actor 
of  note  who  had  faith  in  it.     It  was  "faith  without  works." 

It  is  instructive  to  read  the  modern  Poetic  Drama — to  see 
what  beauties  it  has  —  how  sweet,  and  tender,  and  manly 
much  of  it  is,  and — how  little  it  really  accomplished. 

At  last  there  came  a  poeX  who,  in  all  probability,  knew 
nothing  about  this — certainly  a  poet  who. cared  nothing  for 
it,  if  he  knew  it ;  and  it  is  to  him  that  we  must  pay  homage 
for  whatever  is  good,  great,  and  profound  in  the  second  pe- 
riod of  the  Poetic  Drama  of  England.  It  is  not  what  his 
predecessors  sought  to  find ;  it  is  not  what  Shakespeare 
found  without  seeking ;  it  is  something  never  found,  and 
never  sought  before.  That  so  strange  a  flower  should  spring 
from  such  roots  is  marvellous.  It  is  the  Body  blossoming 
into  Soul. 

Such  I  conceive  is  Robert  Browning  and  his  work. 

[From  the  "  North  British  Review."  *] 
It  will  be  impossible  for  us  to  do  any  sort  of  justice  to  Mr. 
Browning's  dramas  by  quotation  or  otherwise.  Yet  these 
alone  ought  to  be  sufficient  to  build  up  the  fame  of  a  true 
and  great  poet.  King  Victor  and  King  Charles  is  a  profound 
study  of  statecraft  and  human  nature,  finely  intervolved  and 
as  finely  evolved.  The  Return  of  the  Druses  is  likewise  most 
subtle  and  intense,  with  its  perplexity  of  motives  solved  by 
passionate  action,  and  the  complexity  of  life  made  all  clear 
by  death.  The  conclusion  of  this  tragedy  is  grand  as  a  sun- 
set. The  Duchess  Colombe  is  one  of  our  especial  favorites  ; 
our  '  play  queen  '  so  natural  and  brave  on  her  birthday.  And 
*  May,  1861  (vol.  xxxiv.). 


36 


INTRODUCTION. 


Pippa,  everybody's  favorite  with  her  one  day's  holiday,  going 
about  like  an  unwitting  missionary  of  heaven,  doing  good 
without  knowing  it.  ...  A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon  is  full  of 
deep,  moving  power.  The  characters  are  living,  breathing, 
loving,  and  suffering  human  souls,  real  enough  to  stir  the 
profoundest  human  feelings.  By  the  nearest  and  dearest 
ties  they  are  bound  up  in  the  dark  web  of  a  bitter  fate.  We 
see  how  they  might  be  saved,  but  cannot  save  them.  We 
behold  them  striving  in  the  toils,  and  the  great  shadow- 
ing cloud  overhead  coming  straight  down,  big  and  black  to 
bursting.  Life  and  death  are  brought  to  the  fine  turning- 
point  of  a  single  word,  and  it  cannot  be  spoken.  Thus  an 
interest  is  created  intensely  tragic.  We  have  before  men- 
tioned the  passionate  pathos  of  this  drama.  The  pathos  of 
that  last  parting  betwixt  Arthur  and  Guinevere  in  Tenny- 
son's fourth  Idyl  is  very  noble,  but  this  is  yet  more  pieicing. 

[From  Darmesteter 's  "  Essais  de  IJtterature  Anglaise."  *] 
The  obscurity  of  Browning  does  not  proceed,  as  with 
Hugo  and  Tennyson,  in  their  latest  period,  from  the  vague 
immensity  of  the  subjects  considered,  from  the  indefiniteness 
of  his  ideas,  from  the  predominance  of  metaphysical  abstrac- 
tions, but,  on  the  contrary,  from  the  very  precision  of  the 
ideas  and  sentiments,  studied  in  their  remotest  ramifications, 
in  all  their  varied  complications,  and  then  presented  in  a 
mass  of  abstractions  and  metaphors,  now  with  the  infinite 
minuteness  of  scholastic  argument,  now  with  sudden  leaps 
over  abysses  of  deeper  significance.  Browning  is,  par  excel- 
lence, the  psychological  poet.     "Mine,"  he  says — 

"  Mine  be  man's  thoughts,  loves,  hates  !" 

Hence  his  obscurity,  because  he  plunges  to  the  very  depths  ; 
but  hence,  also,  his  force.     No  English   poet  since  Shake- 
speare— say  the  critics,  even  the  most  severe,  who  have  stud- 
*  Essais  de  Litterahire  Auglaise,  par  James  Darmesteter  (Paris,  1883). 


INTRODUCTION. 


37 


ied  Browning  most  thoroughly — has  had  in  a  higher  degree 
the  dramatic  quality,  that  is  to  say,  the  power  of  going  out 
of  one's  self,  and  of  entering  into  another  soul ;  he  is  the  most 
objective  poet  in  an  age  in  which  each  of  us  has  only  one 
soul,  his  own,  and  in  which  all  poetry  is  only  a  confession  ; 
he  is,  perhaps,  the  only  poet  of  our  time  who  creates  souls. 

[From  Symous's  "  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning"  *] 

There  is  another  popular  misconception  to  which  also  a 
word  in  passing  may  as  well  be  devoted.  This  is  the  idea 
that  Mr.  Browning's  personality  is  apt  to  get  confused  with 
his  characters',  that  his  men  and  women  are  not  separate 
creations,  projected  from  his  brain  into  an  independent  ex- 
istence, but  mere  masks  or  puppets  through  whose  mouths 
he  speaks.  This  fallacy  arises  from  the  fact  that  not  a  few 
of  his  imaginary  persons  express  themselves  in  a  somewhat 
similar  fashion;  or,  as  people  too  rashly  say,  "talk  like 
Browning."  The  explanation  of  this  apparent  paradox,  so 
far  as  it  exists,  is  not  far  to  seek.  All  art  is  a  compromise, 
and  all  dramatic  speech  is  in  fact  impossible.  No  persons 
in  real  life  would  talk  as  Shakespeare  or  any  other  great 
dramatist  makes  them  talk.  Nor  do  the  characters  of  Shake- 
speare talk  like  those  of  any  other  great  dramatist,  except 
in  so  far  as  later  playwrights  have  consciously  imitated 
Shakespeare.     Every  dramatic  writer  has  his  own  style,  and 

*  An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning,  by  Arthur  Symons  (Lon- 
don, 1886),  p.  18. 

This  book,  which  has  appeared  since  our  Select  Poems  0/  Browning  was 
published,  should  be  added  to  the  list  of  the  "  Helps  to  the  Study  of  the 
given  in  that  volume  (p.  13).  If  the  works  there  mentioned  are 
valuable  to  the  student,  this  is  invaluable.  It  is  compact,  clear,  unaffected, 
exhaustive.  Of  course  it  does  not  aim  to  say  all  that  may  well  be  said 
of  Browning,  but  in  its  well-defined  sphere  it  is  complete.  There  is  at 
present  so  much  insincere  attitudinizing  which  passes  under  the  name 
of  enthusiasm  for  our  poet  that  it  is  a  genuine  relief  to  meet  with  a  work 
at  once  simple,  virile,  and  appreciative. 


38  INTRODUCTION. 

in  this  style,  subject  to  modification,  all  his  characters  speak. 
Just  as  a  soul,  born  out  of  eternity  into  time,  takes  on  itself 
the  impress  of  earth  and  the  manners  of  human  life,  so  a 
dramatic  creation,  pure  essence  in  the  shaping  imagination 
of  the  poet,  takes  on  itself,  in  its  passage  into  life,  something 
of  the  impress  of  its  abode.  "The  poet,  in  short,  endows 
his  creations  with  his  own  attributes ;  he  enables  them  to 
utter  their  feelings  as  if  they  themselves  were  poets,  thus 
giving  a  true  voice  even  to  that  intensity  of  passion  which 
in  real  life  often  hinders  expression."*  If  this  fact  is  rec- 
ognized—  that  dramatic  speech  is  not  real  speech,  but  po- 
etical speech,  and  poetical  speech  infused  with  the  individ- 
ual style  of  each  individual  dramatist,  modulated,  indeed, 
but  true  to  one  keynote — then  it  must  be  granted  that  Mr. 
Browning  has  as  much  right  to  his  own  style  as  other  dram- 
atists have  to  theirs,  and  as  little  right  as  they  to  be  accused 
on  that  account  of  putting  his  personality  into  his  work. 
But  as  Mr.  Browning's  style  is  very  'pronounced  and  origi- 
nal, it  is  more  easily  recognizable  than  that  of  most  drama- 
tists— so  far,  no  doubt,  a  defect  t — and  for  this  reason  it  has 
come  to  seem  relatively  more  prominent  than  it  really  is. 
This  consideration,  and  not  any  confusion  of  identity,  is  the 
cause  of  whatever  similarity  of  speech  exists  between  Mr. 
Browning  and  his  characters,  or  between  individual  charac- 
ters.    The  similarity  is  only  skin-deep.     Take  a  convenient 

*  "  Realism  in  Dramatic  Art,"  New  Quarterly  Magazine,  Oct.,  1879. 

t  Allowing  at  its  highest  valuation  all  that  .need  be  allowed  on  this 
score,  we  find  only  that  Mr.  Browning  has  the  defects  of  his  qualities  ; 
and  from  these  who  is  exempted  ?  By  virtue  of  this  style  of  his  he  has 
succeeded  in  rendering  into  words  the  very  inmost  thoughts  and  finest 
shades  of  feeling  of  the  "men  and  women  fashioned  by  his  fancy,"  and  in 
such  a  task  we  can  pardon  even  a  fault — for  such  a  result  we  can  overlook 
even  a  blemish  ;  as  Lessing,  in  Laokoou,  remarking  on  an  error  in  Ra- 
phael's drapery,  finely  says,  "Who  will  not  rather  praise  him  for  having 
had  the  wisdom  and  the  courage  to  commit  a  slight  fault,  for  the  sake  of 
greater  fulness  of  expression  ?" 


INTRODUCTION. 


39 


instance,  The  Ring  and  the  Book.  I  have  often  seen  it  stated 
that  the  nine  tellings  of  the  story  are  all  told  in  the  same 
style,  that  all  the  speakers — Guido  and  Pompilia,  the  Pope 
and  Tertium  Quid  alike — speak  like  Browning.  I  cannot 
see  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  astonished,  in  reading 
and  rereading  the  poem,  at  the  variety,  the  difference,  the 
wonderful  individuality  in  each  speaker's  way  of  telling  the 
same  story — at  the  profound  art  with  which  the  rhythm,  the 
metaphors,  the  very  details  of  language,  no  less  than  the 
broad  distinctions  of  character  and  the  subtle  indications  of 
bias,  are  adapted  and  converted  into  harmony.  A  certain 
general  style,  a  certain  general  manner  of  expression,  are 
common  to  all,  as  is  also  the  case  in,  let  us  say,  The  Tem- 
pest. But  what  distinction,  what  variation  of  tone,  what  del- 
icacy and  expressiveness  of  modulation  !  As  a  simple  mat- 
ter of  fact,  few  writers  have  ever  had  a  greater  flexibility  of 
style  than  Mr.  Browning. 

I  am  doubtful  whether  full  justice  has  been  done  to  one 
section  of  Mr.  Browning's  dramatic  work  —  his  portraits  of 
women.  The  presence  of  Woman  is  not  perhaps  relatively 
so  prominent  in  his  work  as  it  is  in  the  work  of  some  other 
poets ;  he  has  nothing  of  that  exclusive  preoccupation  with 
the  subject,  nothing  of  that  adoring  or  reviling  fascination 
which  we  sometimes  see ;  but  as  faithful  and  vital  represen- 
tations, I  do  not  hesitate  to  put  his  portraits  of  women  quite 
on  a  level  with  his  portraits  of  men,  and  far  beyond  those  of 
any  other  English  poet  of  the  last  three  centuries.  In  some 
of  them,  notably  in  Pompilia,  there  is  a  something. —  I  can 
hardly  describe  it — which  always  seems  to  me  almost  incred- 
ible in  a  man  :  an  instinct  that  one  would  have  thought  only 
a  woman  could  feel  or  see.  And  his  women,  good  or  bad, 
are  always  real  women,  and  they  are  represented  without 
bias.  Mr.  Browning  is  one  of  the  very  few  men  — Mr.  Mere- 
dith, whose  women  are,  perhaps,  the  consummate  flower  of 
his  work,  is  the  only  other  now  living  in  England — who  can 


4Q 


INTRODUCTION. 


paint  women  without  idealization  or  degradation,  not  from 
the  man's  side,  but  from  their  own  ;  as  living  equals,  not  as 
goddesses  or  as  toys.  His  women  live,  act,  and  suffer — 
even  think ;  not  assertively,  mannishly — for  the  loveliest  of 
them  have  a  very  delicate  charm  of  girlishness  —  but  with 
natural  volition,  on  equal  rights  with  men.  Any  one  who 
has  thought  at  all  on  the  matter  will  acknowledge  that  this 
is  the  highest  praise  that  could  be  given — the  highest  and 
rarest.  Mr.  Browning's  women  are  not  indeed  as  various  as 
his  men;  but  from  Ottima  to  Pompilia  —  from  the  "great 
white  queen,  magnificent  in  sin,"  to  the  "lily  of  a  maiden, 
white  with  intact  leaf"  —  what  a  range  and  gradation  of 
character !  These  are  the  two  extremes  ;  between  them,  as 
earth  lies  betwixt  heaven  and  hell,  are  stationed  all  the  oth- 
ers, from  the  faint  and  delicate  dawn  in  Pauline,  Michal,  and 
Palma,  on  through  Pippa  and  Mildred  and  Colombe  and 
Constance  and  the  Queen,  to  Balaustion  and  Elvire,  Fifine 
and  Clara  and  the  heroine  of  the  Inn  Album,  and  the  lurid 
close  in  Cristina.  I  have  named  only  a  few,  and  how  many 
there  are  to  name ! 

III.  CRITICAL   COMMENTS   ON  "  A    BLOT   IN   THE   'SCUTCHEON." 

[From  Symons's  "Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning."  *] 

A  Blot  in  the  ''Scutcheon  is  the  simplest,  and  perhaps  the 

deepest  and  finest  of  Mr.  Browning's  plays.     The  Browning 

Society's  performance,  and  Mr.  Barrett's  in  America,  have 

proved  its  acting  capacities,  its  power  to  hold  and  thrill  an 

audience.     The  language  has  a  rich  simplicity  of  the  highest 

dramatic  value,  quick  with  passion,  pregnant  with  thought, 

and  masterly  in  imagination  ;  the  plot  and  characters  are 

perhaps  more  interesting  and  affecting  than  in  any  other  of 

the  plays  ;  while  the  effect  of  the  whole  is  impressive  from 

its  unity.     The  scene  is  English;  the  time  somewhere  in  the 

eighteenth   century;  the   motive,  family  honor  and  dishon- 

*  Page  62  fol. 


INTRODUCTION. 


4t 


or.  The  story  appeals  to  ready  popular  emotions,  emotions 
which,  though  lying  nearest  the  surface,  are  also  the  most 
deeply-rooted.  The  whole  action  is  passionately  pathetic, 
and  it  is  infused  with  a  twofold  tragedy — the  tragedy  of  the 
sin,  and  that  of  the  misunderstanding  —  the  last  and  final 
tragedy,  which  hangs  on  a  word,  a  word  spoken  only  when 
too  late  to  save  three  lives.  This  irony  of  circumstance  is 
at  once  the  source  of  earth's  saddest  discords,  and  the  mo- 
tive of  art's  truest  tragedies.  It  takes  the  place,  in  our 
modern  world,  of  the  'AvayKij,  the  irresistible  Fate  of  the 
Greeks ;  and  is  not  less  impressive  because  it  arises  from 
the  impulse  and  unreasoning  wilfulness  of  man  rather  than 
from  the  implacable  insistency  of  God.  It  is  with  perfect 
justice,  both  moral  and  artistic,  that  the  fatal  crisis,  though 
mediately  the  result  bf  accident,  of  error,  is  shown  to  be  the 
consequence  and  the  punishment  of  wrong.  A  tragedy  re- 
sulting from  the  mistakes  of  the  wholly  innocent  would  jar 
on  our  sense  of  right,  and  could  never  produce  a  legitimate 
work  of  art.  Even  CEdipus  suffers,  not  merely  because  he 
is  under  the  curse  of  a  higher  power,  but  because  he  is  wil- 
ful, and  rushes  upon  Iris  own  fate.  Timon  suffers,  not  be- 
cause he  was  generous  and  good,  but  from  the  defects  of  his 
qualities.  So,  in  this  play,  each  of  the  characters  calls  down 
upon  his  own  head  the  suffering  which  at  first  seems  to  be  a 
mere  caprice  and  confusion  of  chance.  Mildred  Tresham 
and  Henry  Mertoun,  both  very  young,  ignorant,  and  un- 
guarded, have  sinned.  They  attempt  a  late  reparation,  ap- 
parently with  success,  but  the  hasty  suspicion  of  Lord  Tresh- 
am, Mildred's  brother,  diverted  indeed  into  a  wrong  channel, 
brings  down  on  both  a  terrible  retribution.  Tresham,  who 
shares  the  ruin  he  causes,  feels,  too,  that  his  punishment  is 
his  due.  He  has  acted  without  pausing  to  consider,  and  he 
is  called  on  to  pay  the  penalty  of  "evil  wrought  by  want  of 
thought." 

The  character  of  Mildred,  "more  sinned  against  than  sin- 


42 


INTRODUCTION. 


ning,"  is  exquisitely  and  most  tenderly  drawn.  We  see  her, 
and  we  see  and  feel — 

"the  good  and  tender  heart, 
Its  girl's  trust  and  its  woman's  constancy, 
How  pure  yet  passionate,  how  calm  yet  kind, 
How  grave  yet  joyous,  how  reserved  yet  free. 
As  light  "where  friends  are  " — 

as  her  brother,  in  a  memorable  passage,  describes  her.  She 
is  so  thrillingly  alive,  so  beautiful  and  individual,  so  pathetic 
and  pitiful  in  her  desolation.  Every  word  she  speaks  comes 
straight  from  her  heart  to  ours.  "  I  know  nothing  that  is  so 
affecting,"  wrote  Dickens  in  a  letter  to  Forster,  "nothing  in 
any  book  I  have  ever  read,  as  Mildred's  recurrence  to  that 
'I  was  so  young — I  had  no  mother.'"*  Not  till  Pompilia 
do  we  find  so  pathetic  a  portrait  of  a  woman. 

In  Thorold,  Earl  Tresham,  we  have  an  admirable  picture 
of  the  head  of  a  great  house,  proud  above  all  things  of  the 
honor  of  the  family  and  its  yet  stainless  'scutcheon,  and 
proud,  with  a  deep  brotherly  tenderness,  of  his  sister  Mildred: 
a  strong  and  fine  nature,  one  whom  men  instinctively  cite  as 
"  the  perfect  spirit  of  honor."  Mertoun,  the  apparent  hero 
of  the  play,  is  a  much  less  prominent  and  masterly  figure 
than  Tresham,  not  so  much  from  any  lack  of  skill  in  his  de- 
lineation, as  from  the  essential  ineffectualness  of  his  nature. 
Guendolen  Tresham,  the  Beatrice  of  the  play  —  her  lover 
Austin  is  certainly  no  Benedick — is  one  of  the  most  pleas- 
antly humorous  characters  in  Mr.  Browning's  works.  Her 
gay,  light-hearted  talk  brightens  the  sombre  action  like  a 
gleam  of  sunlight.  And,  like  her  prototype,  she  has  a  true 
woman's  heart.  As  Beatrice  stands  by  the  calumniated 
Hero,  so  Guendolen  stands  by  Mildred,  and  by  her  quick 
woman's  heart  and  wit,  her  instinct  of  things,  sees  and  seizes 
the  missing  clew,  though  too  late,  as  it  proves,  to  avert  the 
impending  catastrophe. 

*  Forster's  Life  of  Dickens,  vol.  ii.  p.  24. 


INTRODUCTIOX. 


43 


The  play  contains  one  of  Mr.  Browning's  most  delicate 
and  musical  lyrics  —  the  serenade  beginning,  "There's  a 
woman  like  a  dew-drop."  This  is  the  first  of  the  love-songs 
in  long  lines  which  Mr.  Browning  has  so  frequently  written 
of  very  recent  years,  and  so  seldom  before. 

[from  Forster^s  "Life  of Dickens." ' *] 

This  was  the  date  of  Mr.  Browning's  tragedy  of  the  Blot 
in  the  'Scutcheon,  which  I  took  upon  myself,  after  reading  it  in 
the  manuscript,  privately  to  impart  to  Dickens  ;  and  I  was 
not  mistaken  in  the  belief  that  it  would  profoundly  touch  him. 
"Browning's  play,"  he  wrote,  "has  thrown  me  into  a  perfect 
passion  of  sorrow.  To  say  that  there  is  anything  in  its  sub- 
ject save  what  is  lovely,  true,  deeply  affecting,  full  of  the  best 
emotion,  the  most  earnest  feeling,  and  the  most  true  and  tender 
source  of  interest,  is  to  say  that  there  is  no  light  in  the  sun,  and 
no  heat  in  blood.  It  is  full  of  genius,  natural  and  great  thoughts, 
profound  and  yet  simple  and  beautiful  in  its  vigor.  I  know 
nothing  that  is  so  affecting,  nothing  in  any  book  I  have  ever 
read,  as  Mildred's  recurrence  to  that '  I  was  so  young — I  had 
no  mother.'  I  know  no  love  like  it,  no  passion  like  it,  no 
moulding  of  a  splendid  thing  after  its  conception,  like  it. 
And  I  swear  it  is  a  tragedy  that  must  be  played  ;  and  must 
be  played,  moreover,  by  Macready.  There  are  some  things 
I  would  have  changed  if  I  could  (they  are  very  slight,  mostly 
broken  lines)  ;  and  I  assuredly  would  have  the  old  servant 
begin  his  tale  upon  the  scene ;  and  be  taken  by  the  throat,  or 
drawn  upon,  by  his  master,  in  its  commencement.  But  the 
tragedy  I  never  shall  forget,  or  less  vividly  remember  than  I 
do  now.  And  if  you  tell  Browning  that  I  have  seen  it,  tell 
him  that  I  believe  from  my  soul  there  is  no  man  living  (and 
not  many  dead)  who  could  produce  such  a  work." 

*  Vol.  ii.  p.  46. 


44 


INTRODUCTION. 


IV.    CRITICAL  COMMENTS  ON 

[From  Symons,s  "Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning"*] 

Colombe' s  Birthday,  a  drama  founded,  on  an  imaginary  ep- 
isode in  the  history  of  a  German  duchy  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  is  the  first  play  which  is  mainly  concerned  with  in- 
ward rather  than  outward  action ;  in  which  the  characters 
themselves,  what  they  are  in  their  own  souls,  what  they  think 
of  themselves,  and  what  others  think  of  them,  constitute  the 
chief  interest,  the  interest  of  the  characters  as  they  influence 
one  another  or  external  events  being,  however  intense  in 
itself,  distinctly  secondary.  The  point  on  which  the  action 
turns  is  this.  Colombe  of  Ravestein,  Duchess  of  Juliers  and 
Cleves,  is  surprised,  on  the  first  anniversary  of  her  accession 
(the  day  being  also  her  birthday),  by  a  rival  claimant  to  the 
duchy,  Prince  Berthold,  who  proves  to  be  in  fact  the  true 
heir.  Berthold,  instead  of  pressing  his  claim,  offers  to  marry 
her.  But  he  conceives  the  honor  and  the  favor  to  be  suf- 
ficient, and  makes  no  pretence  at  offering  love  as  well.  On 
the  other  hand,  Valence,  a  poor  advocate  of  Cleves,  who 
has  stood  by  Colombe  when  all  her  other  friends  failed, 
offers  her  his  love,  a  love  to  which  she  can  only  respond  by 
"giving  up  the  world  " — in  other  words,  by  relinquishing  her 
duchy,  and  the  alliance  with  a  Prince  who  is  on  the  road  to 
be  Emperor.  Now,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  question 
of  who  has  the  right  and  who  has  the  might :  that  matter  is 
settled,  and  the  succession  agreed  on,  almost  from  the  be- 
ginning. Nor  are  we  made  to  feel  that  any  disgrace  or  rep- 
utation of  weakness  will  rest  on  Colombe  if  she  gives  up  her 
place  ;  not  even  that  the  pang  at  doing  so  will  be  over-acute 
or  entirely  unrelieved.  All  the  interest  centres  in  the  purely 
personal  and  psychological  bearings  of  the  act.  It  is  per- 
haps a  consequence  of  this  that  the  style  is  somewhat  differ- 

*  Page  65  foL 


INTRODUCTION. 


45 


■  ent  from  that  of  any  previous  play.  Any  one  who  notices 
the  stage  directions  will  see  that  the  persons  of  the  drama 
frequently  speak  "  after  a  pause."  The  language  which  they 
use  is,  naturally  enough,  more  deliberate  and  reflective,  the 
lines  are  slower  and  more  weighty,  than  would  be  appropri- 
ate amid  the  breathless  action  of  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  or 
The  Return  of  the  Druses.  A  certain  fiery  quality,  a  thrill- 
ing, heart-stirred  and  heart-stirring  tone,  which  we  -find  in 
these  is  wanting ;  but  the  calm  sweep  of  the  action  carries 
with  it  some  of  the  finest  harmonies  of  line  and  metaphor 
since  Paracelsus. 

Colombe,  the  veritable  heroine  of  the  drama,  is,  if  not 
"  the  completest  full-length  portrait  of  a  woman  that  Mr. 
Browning  has  drawn,"  certainly  both  one  of  the  sweetest 
and  one  of  the  completest.  Her  character  develops  during 
the  course  of  the  play — as  she  herself  says, 

"  This  is  indeed  my  birthday — soul  and  body, 
Its  hours  have  done  on  me  the  work  of  years — " 

and  it  leaves  her  a  nobler  and  stronger,  yet  not  less  charm- 
ing woman  than  it  found  her.  Hitherto  she  has  been  a  mere 
"play-queen,"  shut  in  from  action, shut  in  from  facts  and  the 
world,  and  required  only  to  be  gay  and  amused.  But  now, 
at  the  first  and  yet  final  trial,  she  is  proved  and  found  to  be 
of  noble  metal.  The  gay  girlishness  of  the  young  Duchess, 
her  joyous  and  generous  light  heart ;  her  womanliness,  her 
earnestness,  her  clear,  deep,  noble  nature,  attract  us  from  her 
first  words,  and  leave  us,  after  the  hour  we  have  spent  in  her 
presence,  with  the  inalienable  uplifting  memory  that  we  have 
of  some  women  whom  we  meet,  for  an  hour  or  a  moment,  in 
the  world  or  in  books. 

Berthold,  the  weary  and  unsatisfied  conqueror,  is  a  singu- 
larly unconventional  figure.  He  is  a  man  of  action,  with 
some  of  the  sympathies  of  the  scholar  and  the  lover  ;  reso- 
lute io  the  attainment  of  ends  which  he  sees  to  be,  in  them- 
selves, vulgar  ;  his  ambition  rather  an  instinct  than  something 


46  INTRODUCTION. 

to  be  pursued  for  itself,  and  his  soul  too  keenly  aware  of  the 
joys  and  interests  he  foregoes  to  be  quite  satisfied  or  con- 
tent with  his  lot  and  conduct.  The  grave  courtesy  of  his 
speech  to  Colombe,  his  somewhat  condescending  but  not 
unfriendly  tone  with  Valence,  his  rough  home-truths  with  the 
parasitical  courtiers,  and  his  frank  confidence  with  Melchior, 
are  admirably  discriminated.  Melchior  himself,  little  as  he 
speaks,  is  a  fine  sketch  of  the  contemplative,  bookish  man 
who  finds  no  more  congenial  companion  and  study  than  a 
successful  man  of  action.  His  attitude  of  detachment — a 
mere  spectator  in  the  background — is  well  in  keeping  with 
the  calm  and  thoughtful  character  of  the  play.  Valence,  the 
true  hero  of  the  piece,  the  "  pale  fiery  man  "  who  can  speak 
with  so  moving  an  eloquence,  whether  he  is  pleading  the 
wrongs  of  his  townsmen  or  of  Colombe,  the  rights  of  Ber- 
thold  or  himself,  is  no  less  masterly  a  portrait  than  the  Prince, 
though  perhaps  less  wholly  unconventional  a  character.  His 
grave  earnestness,  his  honor  as  a  man  and  passion  as  a  lover, 
move  our  instinctive  sympathy,  and  he  never  for  a  moment 
forfeits  it.  Were  it  for  nothing  else,  he  would  win  our  last- 
ing remembrance  from  the  mere  fact  that  he  is  one  of  the 
speakers  in  that  most  delightful  of  love-duets,  the  incompara- 
ble scene  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  act.  "I  remember  well 
to  have  seen,"  wrote  Mr.  Moncure  D.  Conway  in  1854,  "a 
vast  miscellaneous  crowd  in  an  American  theatre  hanging 
with  breathless  attention  upon  every  word  of  this  interview, 
down  to  the  splendid  climax  when,  in  obedience  to  the  Duch- 
ess's direction  to  Valence  how  he  should  reveal  his  love  to 
the  lady  she  so  little  suspects  herself  to  be  herself,  he  kneels 
— every  heart  evidently  feeling  each  word  as  an  electric  touch, 
and  all  giving  vent  at  last  to  their  emotion  in  round  after 
round  of  hearty  applause." 

All  the  minor  characters  are  very  good  and  lifelike,  par- 
ticularly Guibert,  the  shrewd,  hesitating,  talkative,  cynical, 
really  good-hearted  old  courtier,  whom  not  even  a  court  has 


INTRODUCTION. 


47 


deprived  of  a  heart,  though  the  dangerous  influence  of  the 
conscienceless  Gaucelme,  his  fellow,  has  in  its  time  played 
sad  pranks  with  it.  He  is  one  of  the  best  of  Mr.  Browning's 
minor  characters. 

The  performance,  in  1885,  of  Colombes  Birthday,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Browning  Society,  has  brought  to  light 
unsuspected  acting  qualities  in  what  is  certainly  not  the  most 
"dramatic"  of  Mr.  Browning's  plays.  "  Colombe's  Birth- 
day" it  was  said  on  the  occasion,  "  is  charming  on  the  boards, 
clearer,  more  direct  in  action,  more  full  of  delicate  surprises, 
than  one  imagines  it  in  print.  With  a  very  little  cutting  it 
could  be  made  an  excellent  acting  play."* 

[From  Mr.  G.  F.  Charley's  Review  of '"  Bells  and  Pomegranates."  \\ 
It  is  a  question  whether  any  creation  exists  more  chival- 
rous in  its  tone  than  this  legend  ;  that  is,  if  we  somewhat 
refine  the  epithet,  and  (by  courtesy  of  poetical  fiction)  admit 
it  to  include  loyalty,  delicacy — a  recognition  that  there  are 
few  who  have  not  some  touches  of  a  higher  nature  than  dis- 
tinguishes the  churl  and  the  worshipper  of  Mammon.  Co- 
lombe's Birthday  is  a  tale  of  humanity  and  grace  and  poetry, 
vindicating  themselves  in  that  place  where,  of  all  others,  it 
has  been  deemed  the  least  possible  to  find  them — a  court: 
of  Ambition,  in  the  moment  of  its  triumph,  compelled  to  con- 
fess to  itself  and  to  the  world  its  own  haggard  weariness — 
its  inability  to  rest,  its  indifference  to  attempt  new  conquests 
— written  with  all  the  noble  generosity  of  youth,  and  all  the 
ripe  experience  of  middle  age.  This  and  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon  are  the  only  two  of  the  dramas  in  Mr.  Browning's 
Bells  which  could  be  made  available  on  the  stage — as  the 
stage  stands.  .  .  . 

It  appears  from  the  play  that,  some  time  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  the  Duchy  of  Juliers  and  Cleves  fell  for  a 

•  A.  Mary  P.  Robinson,  in  Boston  Literary  World,  December  12,  1885. 
t   The  People's  Journal,  vol.  ii.  p.  38  fol. 


48  INTRODUCTION. 

twelvemonth  under  the  government  of  a  young  and  fair  lady, 
supposed  to  be  rightful  heiress  to  a  little  kingdom.  She  had 
been  brought  up  at  Ravestein,  an  old  castle  down  upon  the 
Meuse ;  her  youth,  it  would  seem,  left  to  its  own  guidance 
and  innocence.  And  so  she  had  taken  state  upon  her  light- 
ly— had  enjoyed,  like  an  innocent  girl  who  has  seen  few  pag- 
eants, a  gay  reception  which  her  subjects  of  Cleves  had 
prepared  for  her — and  had  queened  it  so  brightly  and  gently 
that  her  presence  seemed  to  throw  something  of  grace  and 
humanity  over  the  faded,  formal  functionaries  of  her  little 
court — the  Sieurs  Guibert,  Gaucelme,  Maufroy,  and  Clugnet ; 
insomuch  that  it  was  with  something  more  than  selfish  anxi- 
ety for  their  wands  and  gold  chains — with  a  touch  of  regret — 
that  they  received  the  tidings  how  Duchess  Colombe's  claims 
to  her  inheritance  were  disputed  by  a  wise  and  powerful  rival, 
Prince  Berthold,  who  was  on  his  way  to  Juliers  to  maintain 
his  rights.  Rumors  of  such  a  revolution  had  been  for  some 
time  menacing  them  ;  but  the  bolt  fell  (so  to  say)  in  the 
tidings  of  the  immediate  coming  of  Prince  Berthold,  on  no 
luckier  day  than  the  gentle  Colombe's  birthday.  Little  con- 
scious of  such  instant  peril,  that  gracious  and  delicate  lady 
was  preparing  to  hold  her  court,  and  to  receive  the  good 
wishes  of  her  subjects.  The  drama  opens  at  the  moment 
when  the  four  courtiers  were  waiting  in  the  ante  -  chamber, 
at  a  loss  how  to  break  the  calamity  to  their  mistress,  sav- 
ing themselves  the  while.  A  coarser  chronicler  would  have 
forgotten  their  reluctance  in  their  selfish  uneasiness — have 
made  the  troop  all  equally  mechanical.  But  Mr.  Browning 
knows  that  there  is  a  difference  even  among  automatons. 
Sir  Guibert  had  a  touch  of  better  nature  than  his  fellows. 
Some  slight  intercourse  with  the  people,  it  may  be,  had  ren- 
dered him  a  trifle  less  wooden  and  metallic  than  his  mates. 
He  had  had  dealings  in  Cleves;  had  been  beholden  to  one 
Valence,  an  advocate  there,  in  winning  some  contest  which 
involved  his  property ;  and  was  disposed  to  be  as  generous, 


INTRODUCTION. 


49 


and  considerate,  and  pitiful — as  a  weak  and  mean  man  can 
be.  At  that  precise  moment  of  his  perplexity,  that  very  ad- 
vocate just  mentioned  had  come  to  court  on  the  Duchess's 
birthday  ;  all  her.  old  flatterers  being  kept  away  from  her 
presence  by  the  rumor  of  her  tottering  fortunes.  And  Val- 
ence even  was  come  to  sue,  not  to  congratulate ;  to  present 
a  memorial  on  the  wretchedness  of  Cleves,  not  to  soothe  fair 
Colombe  with  sweet  wishes  of  many  happy  returns  of  so  fair 
a  day.  Now  Valence  was  a  sour,  thin  man  of  common  pres- 
ence, in  a  thread-bare  coat,  and  too  full,  it  seemed,  of  his 
business  to  have  studied  the  right  way  of  presenting  himself. 
The  ushers  would  not  let  him  enter  the  corridor,  and  had 
driven  him  back  again  and  again  ;  till,  espying  Sir  Guibert, 
Valence  forced  his  way  in,  and  claimed  the  offices  of  the 
courtier  whose  estate  he  had  saved  to  bring  him  to  a  speech 
with  Duchess  Colombe.  A  bright  thought  struck  Sir  Gui- 
bert, how  to  pay  his  debt  of  gratitude,  and  relieve  himself  of 
an  unpleasant  responsibility  in  one  and  the  same  moment. 
He  undertook  to  present  Valence,  on  condition  that  the  lat- 
ter would  place  in  the  Duchess's  hand  the  memorial  of  Prince 
Berthold's  claim  !  The  anxious  advocate  of  the  people — un- 
suspecting, and  absorbed  in  his  own  duties — fell  into  the  trap. 
The  doors  were  opened,  and  the  four  courtiers,  and  with  them 
Valence,  passed  into  the  presence-chamber. 

There  was  waiting  the  sweet  Duchess  Colombe,  and  with 
her  one  faithful  bower- woman,  Sabyne.  She  must  have  been 
more,  or  less,  than  woman,  not  to  have  been  vexed  at  the 
thinness  of  the  rank  who  came  to  pay  court  to  her,  as  com- 
pared with  the  throng  of  the  past  year.  Her  smugglings 
with  her  misgivings — her  consciousness,  that,  once  having 
been  made  a  ruler,  she  can  no  more  return  to  the  pleasures 
of  girlhood — are  beautifully  expressed  : 

"  Well  sunshine's  everywhere,  and  summer  too. 
Next  year  't  is  the  old  place  again,  perhaps — 
The  water  breeze  again,  the  birds  again. — 

It  cannot  be  !     It  is  too  late  to  be  !" 
4 


5° 


IXTRODUCTION. 


And  then  the  Midden  heartening  of  herself  up  to  believe  what 
she  wishes,  when  she  sees  the  courtiers  enter: 

"  (Aside.)  The  same  words,  the  same  faces,  the  same  love  ! 

I  have  been  over-fearful.     These  are  few — 

But  these  at  least  stand  firmly — these  are  mine  ! 

As  many  come  as  may ;  and  if  no  more, 

'T  is  that  these  few  suffice — they  do  suffice  ! 

What  succor  may  not  next  year  bring  me  !     Plainly 

I  feared  too  soon  !" 

It  was  new  for  Advocate  Valence  to  be  dazzled  by  an  ap- 
parition of  such  youth  and  graciousness  !  He  had  much  to 
do,  when  permitted  to  speak,  to  plead  the  cause  of  the  starv- 
ing people  ofCleves  before  her!  But  though  bewildered,  he 
was  not  silenced.  Out  spake  he  !  told  that  fair  and  dainty 
lady  that  the  dream  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  the  pomp  in 
which  she  had  moved  abroad,  had  hidden  from  her  the  mis- 
ery of  her  people  ;  prayed  her  to  redress  their  wrongs  ;  and, 
moved  by  his  own  earnestness,  though  still  confused  by  so 
fairy-like  a  presence,  placed  in  her  hand — not  the  petition 
of  the  starving  sufferers  of  Cleves — but  the  memorial  of 
Prince  Berthold  !  The  Duchess  read  ;  too  proud  to  own 
herself  insulted,  too  young  and  delicate  not  to  confess  her 
loneliness,  and  to  ask  upbraidingly  why  had  her  courtiers 
brought  her  from  Ravenstein,  if  their  loyalty  could  protect 
her  no  better  than  this !  She  ended  by  taking  off  her  coro- 
net, and  thanking  God  she  was  no  longer  Duchess  of  such  a 
heartless  people  !  At  the  sight  of  her  nobility  flashed  out  the 
generous  spirit  of  the  people's  advocate — more  courteous  in 
all  his  uncourtliness  than  any  of  Colombe's  cowardly  follow. 
ers.     "Sir  Guibert,"  said  he,  advancing  indignantly — 

"  Sir  Guibert !  knight  they  call  you  ! — this  of  mine 
Is  the  first  step  I  ever  set  at  court. 
You  dared  make  me  your  instrument,  I  find; 
For  that,  so  sure  as  you  and  I  are  men, 
We  reckon  to  the  utmost  presently  ! 
But  as  you  are  a  courtier  and  I  none, 
Your  knowledge' may  instruct  me.     I  already 


INTRODUCTION.  5 1 

Have  too  far  outraged,  by  my  ignorance 

Of  courtier-ways,  this  lady,  to  proceed 

A  second  step,  and  risk  addressing  her. 

I  am  degraded — you  let  me  address  ! 

Out  of  her  presence  all  is  plain  enough 

What  I  shall  do — but  in  her  presence,  too, 

Surely  there  's  something  proper  to  be  done. 

(To  the  others.)  You  gentles,  tell  me  if  I  guess  aright — 

May  I  not  strike  this  man  to  earth?" 

This  burst  of  generous  spirit  stirred  Sir  Guibert,  mean  as 
he  was,  to  make  humble  apology,  on  bended  knee,  to  the 
lady.  It  did  yet  more — it  stirred  the  young  Duchess  to 
feel  and  to  know  that  loyalty  might  mean  a  nobler  thing  than 
observance  out  of  book  and  flattery  from  the  lips,  not  from 
the  heart.  She  bent  at  once  an  eager  and  respectful  ear  to 
her  new  champion  and  counsellor — listened  to  his  eloquent 
tale  of  the  woes  of  Cleves  ;  and,  absolving  the  cowardly,  half- 
penitent  courtiers  from  further  suit  and  service,  declared  that, 
so  long  as  such  men  as  Valence  were  among  her  subjects, 
she  would  not  yield  up  her  Duchy  till  the  right  was  tried  ! 
and  there  and  then  invested  him  with  all  the  offices  her  ser- 
vants had  laid  down. 

While  these  things  were  passing,  Prince  Berthold  arrived, 
unguarded; — having  left  his  men-at-arms  at  Aix,  and  being 
only  accompanied  by  Melchior,  his  philosopher-in-ordinary. 
For  Prince  Berthold,  though  an  ambitious  man,  marking 
Juliers  as  one  step  to  be  gained  towards 

"Aix,  Cologne,  Frankfort,  Milan,  Rome!" 

was  not  the  common,  vulgar  usurper — half  swordsman,  half 
sensualist — by  aid  of  whom,  one  poorer  or  coarser  in  imagi- 
nation than  Mr.  Browning  would  have  wrought  out  his  con- 
trast. He  had  a  taste  for  what  was  refined  and  beautiful — 
when  young,  had  wooed  a  rosy  maiden,  Priscilla,  under  a 
gray  convent  wall ; — and  had  not  forgotten,  even  now  that 
he  was  a  hard,  experienced  statesman,  how  he  had  wooed 


5* 


INTRODUCTION. 


in  vain  !  Further,  though  desirous  of  conquest,  none  was 
readier  than  Prince  Berthold  to  despise  the  courtier  crew, 
who,  appalled  by  his  presence,  and  each  man  anxious  to 
hold  fast  his  place,  welcomed  him  obsequiously;  and  told 
him  with  a  sneer  that  Duchess  Colombe  denied  his  claim, 
and  defied  himself — advised,  doubtless,  by  "that  blustering 
advocate."  These  glimpses  of  a  brave  spirit  in  the  lady  sug- 
gested, with  lightning  quickness,  a  measure  to  the  Prince, 
who  had  never  forgotten  his  love  failure.  Why  not  woo  and 
wed  this  high-hearted  Colombe  ?  —  why  not  win  the  Duchy 
without  discrowning  its  gentle  Duchess?  The  thought 
pleased)  and  ere  it  had  passed,  the  lady  had  entered  with 
Valence  at  her  side  ; — her  pride  and  the  new  interest  which' 
the  advocate's  noble  words  had  awakened-  making  her 
beauty  more  beautiful.  But  so  courteous  was  Prince  Ber- 
thold as  at  once  to  deprive  her  of  half  her  indignation.  Al- 
most he  seemed  to  apologize  to  her  ;  he,  who  could  have 
enforced — for  preferring — his  claim  ;  put  aside,  with  disdain, 
the  intervention  of  the  cast-off  courtiers  ;  and  listened  with 
grave  deference  to  the  strangely-won  friend  to  whom  the 
Duchess  referred  him.  Well  might  he  listen  when  Valence 
could  speak  for  his  lady  and  himself  so  nobly  as  he  did 
speak.  I  know  of  few  things  in  heroic  poetry  finer  than  the 
appeal : — 

"Berthold.  Where 

Stand  those  should  answer  ? 

Valence  (advancing).  The  lady  is  alone  ? 

Berthold.     Alone,  and  thus  ?    So  weak  and  yet  so  bold  ? 

Valence.     I  said  she  was  alone — 

Berthold.  And  weak  I  said. 

Valence.     When  is  man  strong  until  he  feels  alone? 
It  was  some  lonely  strength  at  first,  be  sure, 
Created  organs,  such  as  those  you  seek, 
By  which  to  give  its  varied  purpose  shape — 
And  naming  the  selected  ministrants, 
Took  sword  and  shield  and  sceptre, — each  a  man  ! 
That  strength  performed  its  work  and  passed  its  ivay. 


INTRODUCTION.  53 

You  see  our  lady  :  there  the  old  shapes  stand — 

A  Marshal,  Chamberlain,  and  Counsellor — 

'  Be  helped  their  way,  into  their  death  put  life 

And  find  advantage  !' — so  you  counsel  us  ! 

But  let  strength  feel  alone,  seek  help  itself, 

And  as  the  inland-hatched  sea-creature  hunts 

The  sea's  breast  out, — as  littered  mid  the  waves, 

The  desert  brute  makes  for  the  desert's  joy, 

So,  I  am  first  her  instinct  fastens  on, — 

And  prompt  I  say,  as  clear  as  heart  can  speak, 

The  people  will  not  have  you,  nor  shall  have ! 

It  is  not  merely  I  shall  go  bring  Cleves 

And  fight  you  to  the  last — though  that  does  much, 

And  men  and  children — ay,  and  women  too, 

Fighting  for  home,  are  rather  to  be  feared 

Than  mercenaries  fighting  for  their  pay — 

But,  say  you  beat  us,  since  such  things  have  been, 

And,  where  this  Juliers  laughed,  you  set  your  foot 

Upon  a  steaming  bloody  plash — what  then  ? 

Stand  you  the  more  our  lord,  as  there  you  stand  ? 

Lord  it  o'er  troops  whose  force  you  concentrate, 

A  pillared  flame  whereto  all  ardours  tend — 

Lord  it  'mongst  priests  whose  schemes  you  amplify, 

A  cloud  of  smoke,  'neath  which  all  shadows  brood, 

But  never,  in  this  gentle  spot  of  earth 

Can  you  become  our  Colombe,  our  play-queen 

Whom  we,  to  furnish  lilies  for  her  hair 

Would  pour  our  veins  out  to  enrich  the  soil ! 

Our  conqueror  ?     Yes  ! — Our  despot  ?    Yes  ! — Our  Duke  ? 

Know  yourself,  know  us  !" 

The  remainder  of  the  tale  must  be  told  more  briefly,  since 
the  characters  are  now  set  in  all  their  many-colored  hues 
before  the  reader,  and  he  will  be  able  to  follow  out  the  story 
without  minute  explanation  ;  or,  what  is  better,  he  is  by  this 
time  eager  to  turn  to  the  book  and  read  the  rest  for  himself. 
Knough  to  say  that  Prince  Berthold  courteously  intrusted  to 
Valence  the  examination  of  his  claims;  and  that  these,  alas 
for  Colombe,  were  proved  to  be  valid.  That  the  Prince  also 
confided  to  the  advocate's  skill  his  project  for  repairing  the 
lady's  losses,  by  offering  to  her  h»5  hand  and  the  Duchy. 


54 


INTRODUCTION. 


But  the  lady  meanwhile  has  discovered,  not  only  that  her 
new  chamberlain  was  loyal  to  his  Duchess  — but  that  the 
man  of  the  people  —  who  could  speak  so  gloriously,  think  so 
nobly,  was  devoted  to  the  woman  who  could  meet  danger  so 
heroically !  Somewhat  of  the  Duchess  training  clung  to 
her — somewhat  of  the  girl's  wilfulness.  Prince  Berthold's 
noble  offer  flattered  her  fancy  and  soothed  her  pride,  for 
youth  is  more  dazzled  by  grandeur  than  age,  which  has 
learned  its  utter  hollowness.  And  then,  it  was  sweet  to  try 
how  noble  her  pale,  earnest  servitor  could  be !  What  living 
being  thus  enforced  would  not  have  wavered?  The  victory 
had  been  nothing  without  the  struggle.  And  Colombe  did 
waver  for  an  hour.  But  there  was  victory  ;  and  after  having 
fathomed  to  its  most  secret  depths  one  of  the  truest  and  no- 
blest hearts  which  ever  God  created — finding  at  every  touch 
a  new  and  answering  fountain  of  high  thoughts  and  unselfish 
purposes  up-springing  in  her  own — Colombe,  the  Duchess, 
ended  her  birthday  by  choosing  the  better  part — yielding  up 
empty  power,  and  embracing  life  with  its  duties,  love  with 
its  rewards.  Prince  Berthold  went  his  way,  leaving  a  "black 
Barnabite  "  behind  him  as  viceroy,  to  enforce  from  the  court- 
iers the  duty  they  were  in  such  agony  to  tender — and  the 
advocate  returned  to  Cleves  with  a  fond  and  fair  lady. 

The  closing  act  of  this  beautiful  drama,  rich  in  the  loftiest 
poetry,  could  have  been  dwelt  and  drawn  upon,  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  every  one  ;  most  of  all  my  own.  But  enough  has  been 
said  to  indicate  —  and  that  is  the  purpose  of  these  poor 
sketches.  There  is  small  hope  of  any  one's  progress  in  ap- 
preciating poetry,  if,  after  having  made  the  slight  effort  which 
Mr.  Browning's  style  demands,  he  who  has  begun  Colombe  s 
Birthday  can  lay  it  down  till  the  play  be  played  out  and  the 
curtain  has  fallen.  I  repeat  that  if  it  be  too  fine  for  the 
stage,  the  fault  is  that  our  actors  are  too  coarse,  not  that  our 
audiences  are  incapable  of  relishing  fancies  so  "chaste  and 
noble !" 


INTRODUCTION. 


55 


V.  CRITICAL  COMMENTS   ON  "A  SOUL'S   TRAGEDY." 
[From  Symons's  "Introduction  to  the  Study  of  B> owning."  *] 

The  development  of  Mr.  Browning's  genius,  as  shown  in 
his  plays,  has  been  touched  on  in  dealing  with  Colombe's 
Birthday.  That  play,  as  I  intimated,  shows  the  first  token 
of  transition  from  the  comparatively  conventional  dramatic 
style  of  the  early  plays  to  the  completely  unconventional 
style  of  the  later  ones,  which  in  turn  lead  almost  impercepti- 
bly to  the  final  pausing-place  of  the  monologue.  From  A 
Blot  in  the  ' 'Scutcheon  to  Colombe's  Birthday  is  a  step ;  from 
Colombe's  Birthday  to  A  Soul's  Tragedy  and  Luria  another 
step  ;  and  in  these  last  we  are  not  more  than  another  step 
from  Men  and  Women  and  its  successors.  In  A  Soufs 
Tragedy  the  action  is  all  internalized.  Outward  action  there 
is,  and  of  a  sufficiently  picturesque  nature  ;  but  here,  con- 
siderably more  than  even  in  Colombe's  Birthday,  the  interest 
is  withdrawn  from  the  action,  as  action,  and  concentrated  on 
a  single  character,  whose  "soul's  tragedy,"  not  his  mere 
worldly  fortunes,  strange  and  significant  as  these  are,  we 
are  called  on  to  contemplate.  Chiappino  fills  and  possesses 
the  scene.  The  other  characters  are  carefully  subordinated, 
and  the  impression  we  receive  is  not  unlike  that  received 
from  one  of  Mr.  Browning's  most  vivid  and  complete  mono- 
logues, with  its  carefully  placed  apparatus  of  side-lights. 

The  character  of  Chiappino  is  that  of  a  Djabal  degener- 
ated ;  he  is  the  second  of  Mr.  Browning's  delineations  of  the 
half-deceived  and  half-deceiving  nature,  the  moral  hybrid. 
Chiappino  comes  before  us  as  a  much-professing  yet  appar- 
ently little-performing  person,  moody  and  complaining,  envi- 
ous of  his  friend  Luitolfo's  better  fortune,  a  soured  man  and 
a  discontented  patriot.  But  he  is  quite  sure  of  his  own  com- 
plete probity.  He  declaims  bitterly  against  his  fellow  -towns- 
men, his  friend,  and  his  love  —  all  ot  whom,  he  asseverates, 

*  1'agc  79  fol. 


56  INTRODUCTION. 

treat  him  unjustly,  and  as  he  never  could,  by  any  possibility, 
treat  them.  While  he  is  thus  protesting  to  Eulalia,  his 
friend's  betrothed,  to  whom  for  the  first  time  he  avows  his 
own  love,  a  trial  is  at  hand,  and  nearer  than  he  or  we  ex- 
pect. Luitolfo  rushes  in.  He  has  gone  to  the  Provost's 
palace  to  intercede  on  behalf  of  his  banished  friend,  and  in 
a  moment  of  wrath  has  struck  and,  as  he  thinks,  killed  the 
Provost:  the  guards  are  after  him,  and  he  is  lost.  Is  this 
the  moment  of  test?  Apparently;  and  apparently  Chiap- 
pino  proves  his  nobility.  For,  with  truly  heroic  unselfish- 
ness, he  exchanges  dress  with  his  friend,  induces  him,  in  a 
sort  of  stupefaction  of  terror,  to  escape,  and  remains  in  his 
place,  "to  die  for  him."  But  the  harder  test  has  yet  to 
come.  Instead  of  the  Provost's  guards,  it  is  the  enthusias- 
tic populace  that  burst  in  upon  him,  hailing  him  as  saviour 
and  liberator.  The  people  have  risen  in  revolt,  the  guards 
have  fled,  and  the  people  call, on  the  striker  of  the  blow  to 
be  their  leader.  Chiappino  says  nothing.  "Chiappino?" 
says  Eulalia,  questioning  him  with  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  I  under- 
stand," he  rejoins, 

"  You  think  I  should  have  promptlier  disowned 
This  deed  with  its  strange  unforeseen  success, 
In  favor  of  Luitolfo.     But  the  peril, 
So  far  from  ended,  hardly  seems  begun. 
To-morrow,  rather,  when  a  calm  succeeds, 
We  easily  shall  make  him  full  amends ; 
And  meantime — if  we  save  them  as  they  pray, 
And  justify  the  deed  by  its  effects? 

Eulalia.  You  would,  for  worlds,  you  had  denied  at  once. 

Chiappino.  I  know  my  own  intention,  be  assured  ! 
All 's  well.     Precede  us,  fellow-citizens  !" 

Thus  ends  act  first,  "  being  what  was  called  the  poetry  of 
Chiappino's  life  ;"  and  act  second,  "  its  prose,"  opens  after  a 
supposed  interval  of  a  month. 

The  second  act  exhibits,  in  very  humorous  prose,  the 
gradual  and  inevitable  deterioration  which' the  silence  and 


INTRODUCTION. 


57 


the  deception  have  brought  about  Drawn  on  and  on,  upon 
his  own  lines  of  thought  and  conduct,  by  Ogniben,  the  Pope's 
legate,  who  has  come  to  put  down  the  revolt  by  diplomatic 
measures,  Chiappino  denies  his  political  principles — finding 
a  democratic  rule  not  at  all  so  necessary  when  possibly  the 
provostship  may  fall  to  himself;  denies  his  love,  for  his 
views  of  love  are,  he  finds,  widened;  and,  finally,  denies  his 
friend,  to  the  extent  of  arguing  that  the  very  blow  which,  as 
struck  by  Luitolfo,  has  been  the  factor  of  his  fortune,  was 
practically,  because  .logically,  his  own.  Ogniben  now  agrees 
to  invest  him  with  the  Provost's  office,  making  at  the  same 
time  the  stipulation  that  the  actual  assailant  of  the  Provost 
shall  suffer  the  proper  penalty.  Hereupon  Luitolfo  comes 
forward  and  avows  the  deed.  Ogniben  orders  him  to  his 
house  ;  Chiappino  "goes  aside  for  a  time;"  "and  now,"  con- 
cludes the  legate,  addressing  the  people,  "give  thanks  to 
God,  the  keys  of  the  Provost's  palace  to  me,  and  yourselves 
to  profitable  meditation  at  home." 

Besides  Chiappino,  there  are  three  other  characters,  who 
serve  to  set  off  the  main  figure.  Eulalia  is  an  observer,  Lui- 
tolfo a  foil,  Ogniben  a  touchstone.  Eulalia  and  Luitolfo, 
though  sufficiently  wrought  out  for  their  several  purposes, 
are  but  sketches,  the  latter  perhaps  more  distinctly  outlined 
than  the  former,  and  serving  admirably  as  a  contrast  to  Chi- 
appino. But  Ogniben,  who  does  so  much  of  the  talking  in 
the  second  act,  is  a  really  memorable  figure.  His  portrait 
is  painted  with  more  prominent  effect,  for  his  part  in  the 
play  is  to  draw  Chiappino  out,  and  to  confound  him  with  his 
own  weapons :  "  I  help  men,"  as  he  says,  "  to  carry  out  their 
own  principles  ;  if  they  please  to  say  two  and  two  make  five, 
I  assent,  so  they  will  but  go  on  and  say,  four  and  four  make 
ten."  His  shrewd  Socratic  prose  is  delightfully  wise  and 
witty.  This  prose — the  only  dramatic  prose  written  by  Mr. 
Browning,  with  the  exception  of  that  in  Pippa  Passes — is,  in 
its  way,  almost  as  good  as  the  poetry  ;  admirably  keen,  vi- 


58 


INTKODUCTJOX. 


vacious,  full-thoughted,  picturesque,  and  singularly  original. 
For  instance,  Chiappino  is  expressing  his  longing  for  a  wom- 
an who  could  understand,  as  he  says,  the  whole  of  him,  to 
whom  he  could  reveal  alike  his  strength  and  weakness. 

"  Ah  my  friend,"  rejoins  Ogniben,  "wish  for  nothing  so  foolish  !  Wor- 
ship your  love,  give  her  the  best  of  you  to  see  ;  be  to  her  like  the  west- 
ern lands  (they  bring  us  such  strange  news  of)  to  the  Spanish  Court ; 
send  her  only  your  lumps  of  gold,  fans  of  feathers,  your  spirit-like  birds, 
and  fruits  and  gems.  So  shall  you,  what  is  unseen  of  you,  be  supposed 
altogether  a  paradise  by  her, — as  these  western  lands  by  Spain  :  though 
I  warrant  there  is  filth,  red  baboons,  ugly  reptiles  and  squalor  enough, 
which  they  bring  Spain  as  few  samples  of  as  possible." 

There  is  in  all  this  prose,  lengthy  as  it  is,  the  true  dramatic 
note,  a  recognizable  tone  of  talk.  But  A  Soul's  Tragedy  is 
for  the  study,  not  the  stage. 

[From  the  "  Contemporary  Review."  *] 
Next  to  this  \Pippa  Passes]  in  clearness,  with  nothing  but 
the  simplest  of  plots,  and  with  hardly  more  than  two  charac- 
ters, one  playing  on  and  unfolding  the  weakness  of  the  other, 
is  A  Souls  Tragedy.  A  mob-leader,  claiming  the  merit  of  a 
deed  of  patriotic  vengeance  which  was  not  his,  trading  on 
the  fame  of  it,  rising  to  supreme  power,  then  losing  in  that 
falsehood  all  true  nobleness,  becoming  sensual,  corrupt,  ser- 
vile, till  at  last  the  astute  Machiavellian  politician  who  has 
seen  u  three  and  twenty  leaders  of  revolts,"  entraps  him  in 
his  own  snare,  puts  him  to  shame,  and  registers  him  as  the 
twenty-fourth  ; — this  moves  on  simply  and  naturally  enough, 
and  the  reader  is  never  embarrassed,  as  in  the  oilier  plays, 
by  vain  efforts  to  recollect  what  has  gone  before,  and  con- 
nect it  with  what  is  coming  next. 

In  one  point,  however,  A  Souls  Tragedy  stands  almost 

alone  in  its  departure  from  the  conventional  type  of  tragedy. 

It  has,  of  course,  been   common   enough   to  mingle  blank 

verse  and  prose  in  the  same  drama,  leaving  the  latter  to  the 

♦Jan.  1867  (vol.  iv.). 


INTRODUCTION. 


59 


less  noble,  assigning  the  former  to  the  more  heroic  charac- 
ters. Here,  however,  Mr.  Browning  wishes  to  symbolize  the 
truth  that  the  noble  aspirations  of  the  patriot  degenerate 
into  the  ignoble  baseness  of  the  ambitious  demagogue,  and 
he  does  so  by  making  everybody  discourse  in  verse  in  the 
first  part  of  the  play,  and,  with  an  equal  uniformity,  talk 
prose  in  the  second.  As  with  every  bold  stroke  of  art,  Ihere 
is,  at  first,  a  certain  effectiveness  in  this,  but  the  second  and 
permanent  impression  which  it  leaves  is  that  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  a  trick  in  it,  true  neither  to  the  ideal 
of  poetry  nor  the  reality  of  actual  life. 


A  BLOT  IN  THE  'SCUTCHEON 

A  TRAGEDY. 


Persons. 

Mildred  Tresham. 
guendolen  tresham. 
Thorold,  Earl  Tresham. 
Austin  Tresham. 
Henry,  Earl  Mertoun. 

Gerard,  and  other  Retainers  of  Lord  Tresham. 
Time,  17— 


A   BLOT   IN    THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


ACT    I. 

Scene  I.  The  interior  of  a  lodge  in  Lord  Tresham's  park. 
Many  Retainers  crowded  at  the  window,  supposed  to  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  entrance  to  his  mansion.  Gerard,  the 
Warrener,  his  back  to  a  table  on  which  are  flagons,  etc. 

i  Retainer.  Ay,  do !  push,  friends,  and  then  you  '11  push 
down  me  ! — 
What  for?     Does  any  hear  a  runner's  foot 
Or  a  steed's  trample  or  a  coach-wheel's  cry? 
Is  the  Earl  come  or  his  least  poursuivant? 
But  there  's  no  breeding  in  a  man  of  you 
Save  Gerard  yonder:  here  's  a  half-place  yet, 
Old  Gerard  ! 

Gerard.         Save  your  courtesies,  my  friend. 
Here  is  my  place. 

2  Retainer.  Now,  Gerard,  out  with  it ! 

What  makes  you  sullen,  this  of  all  the  days 
I'  the  year?     To-day  that  young,  rich,  bountiful,  10 

Handsome  Earl  Mertoun,  whom  alone  they  match 
With  our  Lord  Tresham  through  the  country-side, 
Is  coming  here  in  utmost  bravery 
To  ask  our  master's  sister's  hand  ? 

Gerard.  What  then  ? 

2  Retainer.  What  then  ?     Why,  you,  she  speaks  to,  if  she 
meets 
Your  worship,  smiles  on  as  you  hold  apart 


64  A    BLOT  LN    THE    SCI  TC 11  EON. 

The  boughs  to  let  her  through  her  forest  walks, 

You,  always  favorite  for  your  no-deserts, 

You  've  heard  these  three  days  how  Earl  Mertoun  sues 

To  lay  his  heart  and  house  and  broad  lands  too  «: 

At  Lady  Mildred's  feet ;  and  while  we  squeeze 

Ourselves  into  a  mousehole  lest  we  miss 

One  congee  of  the  least  page  in  his  train, 

You  sit  o'  one  side — '  there's  the  Earl,'  say  I — 

'What  then,'  say  you  ! 

*3  Retainer.  I  '11  wager  he  has  let 

Both  swans  he  tamed  for  Lady  Mildred  swim 
Over  the  falls  and  gain  the  river ! 

Gerard.  Ralph, 

Is  not  to-morrow  my  inspecting-day 
For  you  and  for  your  hawks  ? 

4  Retainer.  Let  Gerard  be  ! 

He  's  coarse-grained,  like  his  carved  black  cross-bow  stock, 
Ha!  look  now,  while  we  squabble  with  him,  look.!  3' 

Well  done,  now — is  not  this  beginning,  now, 
To  purpose  ? 

i  Retainer.    Our  retainers  look  as  fine — 
That 's  comfort.     Lord,  how  Richard  holds  himself 
With  his  white  staff!     Will  not  a  knave  behind 
Prick  him  upright? 

4  Retainer.  He  's  only  bowing,  fool ! 

The  Earl's  man  bent  us  lower  by  this  much. 

i  Retainer.  That 's  comfort.     Here  's  a  very  cavalcade  ! 

3  Retainer.  I  don't  see  wherefore  Richard,  and  his  troop 
Of  silk  and  silver  varlets  there,  should  find  40 

Their  perfumed  selves  so  indispensable 
On  high  days,  holidays !     Would  it  so  disgrace 
Our  family  if  I,  for  instance,  stood — 
In  my  right  hand  a  cast  of  Swedish  hawks, 
A  leash  of  greyhounds  in  my  left  ? — 

Gerard.  With  Hugh 


ACT  I.    SCENE  I.  65 

The  logman  for  supporter,  in  his  right 

The  bill-hook,  in  his  left  the  brushwood-shears ! 

3  Retainer.  Out  on  you,  crab !     What   next,  what  next  ? 
The  Earl ! 

1  Retainer.  Oh!  Walter,  groom,  our  horses,  do  they  match 
The  Earl's  ?     Alas,  that  first  pair  of  the  six —  50 

They  paw  the  ground — Ah,  Walter  !  and  that  brute 
Just  on  his  haunches  by  the  wheel ! 

6  Retainer.  Ay — Ay  ! 

You,  Philip,  are  a  special  hand,  I  hear, 
At  soups  and  sauces  :  what  \s  a  horse  to  you  ? 
D'  ye  mark  that  beast  they  Ve  slid  into  the  midst 
So  cunningly  ? — then,  Philip,  mark  this  further  ; 
No  leg  has  he  to  stand  on  ! 

1  Retainer.  No?     That 's  comfort. 

2  Retainer.     Peace,  Cook  !     The  Earl  descends.  —  Well, 

Gerard,  see 
The  Earl  at  least !   .  Come,  there  's  a  proper  man, 
I  hope !     Why,  Ralph,  no  falcon,  Pole  or  Swede,  60 

Has  got  a  starrier  eye. 

3  Retainer.  His  eyes  are  blue — 
But  leave  my  hawks  alone  ! 

4  Retainer.  So  young,  and  yet 
So  tall  and  shapely! 

5  Retainer.  Here  's  Lord  Tresham's  self! 
There  now — there  's  what  a  nobleman  should  be ! 
He  's  older,  graver,  loftier,  he  's  more  like 

A  House's  head ! 

2  Retainer.  .  But  you  'd  not  have  a  boy — 
And  what 's  the  Earl  beside  ? — possess  too  soon 
That  stateliness? 

1  Retainer.  Our  master  takes  his  hand — 

Richard  and  his  white  staff  are  on  the  move — 
Back  fall  our  people — tsh  ! — there's  Timothy  70 

Sure  to  get  tangled  in  his  ribbon-ties — 
5 


66  A   BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTC/J EOX. 

And  Peter's  cursed  rosette  's  acoming  off! — 
At  last  I  see  our  lord's  back  and  his  friend's — 
And  the  whole  beautiful  bright  company 
Close  round  them — in  they  go!    [  Jumping  doum  from  the 
window-bench,  and  making  for  the  table  and  its  jugs] 

Good  health,  long  life, 
Great  joy  to  our  Lord  Tresharry  and  his  House  ! 

6  Retainer.  My  father  drove  his  father  first  to  court, 
After  his  marriage-day — ay,  did  he  ! 

2  Retainer.  God  bless 

Lord  Tresham,  Lady  Mildred,  and  the  Earl ! 
Here,  Gerard,  reach  your  beaker ! 

Gerard.  Drink,  my  boys !  8o 

Don't  mind  me — all 's  not  right  about  me — drink  ! 

2  Retainer  [Aside].  He  's  vexed,  now,  that  he  let  the  show 
escape ! 

[To  Gerard]  Remember  that  the  Earl  returns  this  way. 

Gerard.  That  way  ? 

2  Retainer.  Just  so. 

Gerard.  Then  my  way  's  here.        [Goes. 

2  Retainer.  Old  Gerard 

Will  die  soon — mind,  I  said  it !     He  was  used 
To  care  about  the  pitifullest  thing 
That  touched  the  House's  honor,  not  an  eye 
But  his  could  see  wherein  :'  and  on  a  cause 
Of  scarce  a  quarter  this  importance,  Gerard 
Fairly  had  fretted  flesh  and  bone  away  90 

In  cares  that  this  was  right,  nor  that  was  wrong, 
Such  point  decorous,  and  such  square  by  rule — 
He  knew  such  niceties,  no  herald  more  ; 
And  now — you  see  his  humor:  die  he  will ! 

2  Retainer.  God  help  him  !    Who  's  for  the  great  servant's- 
hall 
To  hear  what 's  going  on  inside?     They  'd  follow 
Lord  Tresham  into  the  saloon. 


ACT  J.    SCENE  II.  67 

3  Retainer.  I ! — 

4  Retainer.  I ! — 
Leave  Frank  alone  for  catching  at  the  door 
Some  hint  of  how  the  parley  goes  inside  ! 

Prosperity  to  the  great  House  once  more  !  »<» 

Here  *s  the  last  drop! 

1  Retainer.  Have  at  you  !     Boys,  hurrah  ! 


Scene  II.    A  Saloon  in  the  Mansion. 

Enter  Lord  Tresham,  Lord  Mertoun,  Austin,  and  Guen- 

dolen. 

Tresham.  I  welcome  you,  Lord  Mertoun,  yet  once  more, 
To  this  ancestral  roof  of  mine.     Your  name — 
Noble  among  the  noblest  in  itself, 
Yet  taking  in  your  person,  fame  avers, 
New  price  and  lustre — as  that  gem  you  wear, 
Transmitted  from  a  hundred  knightly  breasts, 
Fresh  chased  and  set  and  fixed  by  its  last  lord, 
Seems  to  re-kindle  at  the  core — your  name 
Would  win  you  welcome  ! 

Mertoun.  Thanks ! 

Tresham.  But  add  to  that, 

The  worthiness  and  grace  and  dignity  10 

Of  your  proposal  for  uniting  both  . 
Our  Houses  even  closer  than  respect 
Unites  them  now — add  these,  and  you  must  grant 
One  favour  more,  nor  that  the  least, — to  think 
The  welcome  I  should  give  ; — 't  is  given  !     My  lord, 
My  only  brother,  Austin — he  's  the  king's. 
Our  cousin,  Lady  Guendolen — betrothed 
To  Austin  :  all  are  yours. 

Mertoun.  I  thank  you — less 

For  the  expressed  commendings  which  your  seal, 
And  only  that,  authenticates — forbids  20 


68  •'    BLOT  AV    THE  '  SCUTCHEON. 

My  putting  from  me — to  my  heart  I  take 

Your  praise — but  praise  less  claims  my  gratitude, 

Than  the  indulgent  insight  it  implies 

Of  what  must  needs  be  uppermost  with  one 

Who  comes,  like  me,  with  the  bare  leave  to  ask, 

In  weighed  and  measured  unimpassioned  words, 

A  gift,  which,  if  as  calmly  't  is  denied, 

He  must  withdraw,  content  upon  his  cheek, 

Despair  within  his  soul.     That  I  dare  ask 

Firmly,  near  boldly,  near  with  confidence,  3» 

That  gift,  I  have  to  thank  you.     Yes,  Lord  Tresham, 

I  love  your  sister — as  you  "d  have  one  love 

That  lady — oh!  more,  more  I  love  her!     Wealth, 

Rank,  all  the  world  thinks  me,  they  're  yours,  you  know, 

To  hold  or  part  with,  at  your  choice — but  grant 

My  true  self,  me  without  a  rood  of  land, 

A  piece  of  gold,  a  name  of  yesterday, 

Grant  me  that  lady,  and  you — Death  or  life? 

Guendolen  [apart  to  Austiri].  Why,  this  is  loving,  Austin  ! 

Austin.  He  's  so  young  ! 

Guendolen.  Young?     Old  enough,  I  think,  to  half  surmise 
He  never  had  obtained  an  entrance"  here,  4> 

Were  all  this  fear  and  trembling  needed. 

Austin.  Hush ! 

He  reddens. 

Guendolen.  Mark  him,  Austin  ;  that 's  true  love  ! 
Ours  must  begin  again. 

Tresham.  We  '11  sit,  my  lord. 

Ever  with  best  desert  goes  diffidence. 
I  may  speak  plainly  nor  be  misconceived. 
That  I  am  wholly  satisfied  with  you 
On  this  occasion,  when  a  falcon's  eye 
Were  dull  compared  with  mine  to  search  out  faults, 
Is  somewhat.     Mildred's  hand  is  hers  to  give  50 

Or  to  refuse. 


ACT  I.    SCENE  IT.  69 

Mertoun.        But  you,  you  grant  my  suit  ? 
1  have  your  word  if  hers? 

Tresham.  My  best  of  words 

If  hers  encourage  you.     I  trust  it  will. 
Have  you  seen  Lady  Mildred,  by  the  way? 

Mertoun.  I — I — our  two  demesnes,  remember,  touch  ; 
I  have  been  used  to  wander  carelessly 
After  my  stricken  game  :  the  heron  roused 
Deep  in  my  woods,  has  trailed  its  broken  wing 
Thro'  thicks  and  glades  a  mile  in  yours, — or  else 
Some  eyass  ill-reclaimed  has  taken  flight  60 

And  lured  me  after  her  from  tree  to  tree, 
I  marked  not  whither.     I  have  come  upon 
The  lady's  wondrous  beauty  unaware, 
And — and  then — I  have  seen  her. 

Guendolen  [aside  to  Austin].  Note  that  mode 

Of  faltering  out  that,  when  a  lady  passed, 

He,  having  eyes,  did  see  her !     You  had  said — 
'  On  such  a  day  I  scanned  her,  head  to  foot ; 
Observed  a  red,  where  red  should  not  have  been, 
Outside  her  elbow  ;  but  was  pleased  enough 

Upon  the  whole.'     Let  such  irreverent  talk  7° 

Be  lessoned  for  the  future  ! 

Tresham.  What 's  to  say 

May  be  said  briefly.     She  has  never  known 

A  mother's  care  ;  I  stand  for  father  too. 

Her  beauty  is  not  strange  to  you,  it  seems — 

You  cannot  know  the  good  and  tender  heart, 

Its  girl's  trust  and  its  woman's  constancy, 

How  pure  yet  passionate,  how  calm  yet  kind, 

How  grave  yet  joyous,  how  reserved  yet  free 

As  light  where  friends  are — how  imbued  with  lore 

The  world  most  prizes,  yet  the  simplest,  yet  80 

The — one  might  know  I  talked  of  Mildred     thus 

We  brothers  talk  ! 


7° 


A    BLOT  IX    THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


Mertoun.  ■  I  thank  you. 

Tresham.  In  a  word, 

Control  's  not  for  this  lady;  but  her  wish 
To  please  me  outstrips  in  its  subtlety 
My  power  of  being  pleased:  herself  creates 
The  want  she  means  to  satisfy.     My  heart 
Prefers  your  suit  to  her  as  't  were  its  own. 
Can  I  say  more  ? 

Mertoun.  No  more — thanks,  thanks — no  more! 

Tres/mm.  This  matter  then  discussed — 

Mertoun.  We  '11  waste  no  breath 

On  aught  less  precious.     I  'm  beneath  the  roof  oo 

Which  holds  her :  while  I  thought  of  that,  my  speech 
To  you  would  wander — as  it  must  not  do, 
Since  as  you  favor  me  I  stand  or  fall. 
I  pray  you  suffer  that  I  take  my  leave ! 

Tresham.  With  less  regret 't  is  suffered,  that  again 
We  meet,  I  hope,  so  shortly. 

Mertoun.  We  ?  again  ? — 

Ah!  yes,  forgive  me— when  shall — you  will  crown 
Your  goodness  by  forthwith  apprising  me 
When — if — the  lady  will  appoint  a  day 
For  me  to  wait  on  you — and  her. 

Tresham.  So  soon  100 

As  I  am  made  acquainted  with  her  thoughts 
On  your  proposal — howsoe'er  they  lean — 
A  messenger  shall  bring  you  the  result. 

Mertoun.  You  cannot  bind  me  more  to  you,  my  lord. 
Farewell  till  we  renew — I  trust,  renew 
A  converse  ne'er  to  disunite  again. 

Tresham.  So  may  it  prove  ! 

Mertoun.  You,  lady,  you,  sir,  take 

My  humble  salutation  ! 

Guendolen  and  Austin.  Thanks  ! 

Tresham.  Within  there! 


ACT  I.      SCENE  II.  7 1 

[Servants  enter.     Tresham  conducts  Mertoun  to  the  door. 
Meantime  Austin  remarks, 

Well, 
Here  I  have  an  advantage  of  the  Earl, 

Confess  now  !     I  'd  not  think  that  all  was  safe  no 

Because  my  lady's  brother  stood  my  friend ! 
Why,  he  makes  sure  of  her — '  do  you  say,  yes — 
She  '11  not  say  no,' — what  comes  it  to  beside  ? 
I  should  have  prayed  the  brother,  'speak  this  speech, 
For  Heaven's  sake  urge  this  on  her — put  in  this — 
Forget  not,  as  you  'd  save  me,  t  'other  thing, — 
Then  set  down  what  she  says,  and  how  she  looks, 
And  if  she  smiles,  and' — in  an  under  breath — 
'  Only  let  her  accept  me,  and  do  you 
And  all  the  world  refuse  me,  if  you  dare  !'  120 

Guendolen.  That  way  you'd  take,  friend  Austin  ?     What  a 
shame 
I  wa"s  your  cousin,  tamely  from  the  first 
Your  bride,  and  all  this  fervor  's  run  to  waste  ! 
Do  you  know  you  speak  sensibly  to-day? 
The  Earl 's  a  fool. 

Austin.  Here  's  Thorold.     Tell  him  so ! 

Tresham  {returning).  Now,  voices,  voices  !    "St !  the  lady  's 
first! 
How  seems  he  ? — seems  he  not — come,  faith  give  fraud 
The  mercy-stroke  whenever  they  engage  ! 
Down  with  fraud,  up  with  faith!     How  seems  the  Earl? 
A  name!  a  blazon  !  if  you  knew  their  worth,  130 

As  you  will  never !  come — the  Earl  ? 

Guendolen.  He  's  young. 

Tresham.  What 's  she  ?  an  infant  save  in  heart  and  brain. 
Young!     Mildred  is  fourteen,  remark  !     And  you — 
Austin,  how  old  is  she  ? 

Guendolen.  There  'a  tact  for  you  ! 


72 


//   BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


I  meant  that  being  young  was  good  excuse 
If  one  should  tax  him — 

Tresham.  Well? 

Guendolen.  With  lacking  wit. 

Tresham.   He  lacked  wit?     Where  might  he  lack  wit,  so 
please  you  ?  • 

Guendolen.  In  standing  straighter  than  the  steward's  rod 
And  making  you  the  tiresomest  harangue, 
Instead  of  slipping  over  to  my  side  »4» 

And  softly  whispering  in  my  ear,  'Sweet  lady, 
Your  cousin  there  will  do  me  detriment 
He  little  dreams  of:  he  's  absorbed,  I  see, 
In  my  old  name  and  fame — be  sure  he  Ml  leave 
My  Mildred,  when  his  best  account  of  me 
Is  ended,  in  full  confidence  I  wear 
My  grandsire's  periwig  clown  either  cheek. 
I'm  lost  unless  your  gentleness  vouchsafes—' 

Tresham.  'To  give  a  best  of  best  accounts,  yourself, 
Of  me  and  my  demerits.'     You  are  right !  '    150 

He  should  have  said  what  now  I  say  for  him. 
You  golden  creature,  will  you  help  us  all  ? 
Here  's  Austin  means  to  vouch  for  much,  but  you — 
You  are — what  Austin  only  knows  !     Come  up, 
All  three  of  us:  she's  in  the  library 
No  doubt,  for  the  day  'swearing  fast.     Precede  ! 

Guendolen.  Austin,  how  we  must —  ! 

Tresham.  Must  what  ?     Must  speak  truth, 

Malignant  tongue  !     Detect  one  fault  in  him  1 
I  challenge  you ! 

Guendolen.  Witchcraft 's  a  fault  in  him, 

For  you  're  bewitched. 

Tresham.  What 's  urgent  we  obtain  160 

Is,  that  she  soon  receive  him — say,  to-morrow — 
Next  day  at  furthest. 

Guendolen.  Ne'er  instruct  me  ! 


ACT  I.     SCENE  III.  73 

Treshatn.  Come ! — 

He  's  out  of  yout  good  graces,  since  forsooth, 
He  stood  not  as  he  'd  carry  us  by  storm 
With  his  perfections!     You  're  for  the  composed, 
Manly,  assured,  becoming  confidence  ! — 
Get  her  to  say,  'to-morrow,'  and  I  '11  give  you — 
1  '11  give  you  black  Urganda,  to  be  spoiled 
With  petting  and  snail-paces.     Will  you  ?     Come  ! 


Scene  III.     Mildred's  Chamber.     A  painted  window  over- 
looks the  park.     Mildred  and  Guendolen. 

Guendolen.  Now,  Mildred,  spare  those  pains.   I  have  not  left 
Our  talkers  in  the  library,  and  climbed 
The  wearisome  ascent  to  this  your  bower 
In  company  with  you, — I  have  not  dared — 
Nay,  worked  such  prodigfes  as  sparing  you 
Lord  Mertoun's  pedigree  before  the  flood, 
Which  Thorold  seemed  in  very  act  to  tell — 
Or  bringing  Austin  to  pluck  up  that  most 
Firm-rooted  heresy — your  suitor's  eyes, 

He  would  maintain,  were  gray  instead  of  blue —  to 

I  think  I  brought  him  to  contrition  ! — Well, 
I  have  not  done  such  things — all  to  deserve 
A  minute's  quiet  cousin's  talk  with  you-<— 
To  be  dismissed  so  coolly ! 

Mildred.  Guendolen ! 

What  have  I  done  ?  what  could  suggest — 

Guendolen.  There,  there ! 

Do  I  not  comprehend  you  'd  be  alone 
To  throw  those  testimonies  in  a  heap, 
Thorold's  enlargings,  Austin's  brevities, 
Willi  that  poor  silly,  heartless  Gwendolen's 
Ill-timed,  misplaced,  attempted  smartnesses —  *> 

And  sift  their  sense  out?  now,  I  come  to  spare  you 


74  A   BLOT  IN  THE   'SCUTCHEON. 

Nearly  a  whole  night's  labor.     Ask  and  have  ! 
Demand,  be  answered!     Lack  I  ears  and  eyes? 
Am  I  perplexed  which  side  of  the  rock-table 
The  Conqueror  dined  on  when  he  landed  first 
Lord  Mertoun's  ancestor  was  bidden  take — 
The  bow-hand  or  the  arrow-hand's  great  meed? 
Mildred,  the  Earl  has  soft  blue  eyes ! 

Mildred.  My  brother — 

Did  he — you  said  that  he  received  him  well  ? 

Guendolen.  If  I  said  only  'well '  I  said  not  much —  30 

Oh !  stay — which  brother  ? 

Mildred.  Thorold !  who — who  else  ? 

Guendolen.  Thorold — a  secret — is  too  proud  by  half — 
Nay,  hear  me  out — with  us  he  's  even  gentler 
Than  we  "are  with  our  birds.     Of  this  great  House 
The  least  retainer  that  e'er  caught  his  glance 
Would  die  for  him,  real  dying — no  mere  talk  ; 
And  in  the  world,  the  court,  if  men  would  cite 
The  perfect  spirit  of  honor,  Thorold's  name 
Rises  of  its  clear  nature  to  their  lips. 

But  he  should  take  men's  homage,  trust  in  it,  40 

And  care  no  more  about  what  drew  it  down. 
He  has  desert,  and  that,  acknowledgment; 
Is  he  content? 

Mildred.  You  wrong  him,  Guendolen. 

Guendolen.     He's  proud,  confess ;  so  proud  with  brood- 
ing o'er 
The  light  of  his  interminable  line, 
An  ancestry  with  men  all  paladins, 
And  women  all — 

Mildred.  Dear  Guendolen,  't  is  late  ! 

When  yonder  purple  pane  the  climbing  moon 
Pierces,  I  know  't  is  midnight. 

Guendolen.  Well,  that  Thorold 

Should  rise  up  from  such  musings,  and  receive  50 


ACT  I.     SCENE  III. 


75 


One  come  audaciously  to  graft  himself 
Into  this  peerless  stock,  yet  find  no  flaw, 
No  slightest  spot  in  such  an  one — 

Mildred.  Who  finds 

A  spot  in  Mertoun  ? 

Guendolen.  Not  your  brother ;  therefore, 

Not  the  whole  world. 

Mildred.  I  am  weary,  Guendolen. — 

Bear  with  me ! 

Guendolen.       I  am  foolish. 
Mildred.  Oh  \  no,  kind — 

But  I  would  rest. 

Guendolen.  Good  night  and  rest  to  you  ! 

I  said  how  gracefully  his  mantle  lay 
Beneath  the  rings  of  his  light  hair? 

Mildred.  Brown  hair. 

Guendolen.  Brown  ?  why  it  is  brown — how  could  you  know 
that  ?  60 

Mildred.  How  ?  did  not  you — Oh  !   Austin  'twas,  declared 
His  hair  was. light,  not  brown — my  head! — and  look, 
The  moonbeam  purpling  the  dark  chamber!     Sweet, 
Good  night ! 

Guendolen.  Forgive  me — sleep  the  soundlier  for  me  ! 

[Going,  she  turns  suddenly, 
Mildred! 
Perdition  !  all 's  discovered!     Thorold  finds — 
That  the  Earl's  greatest  of  all  grandmothers 
Was  grander  daughter  still — to  that  fair  dame 
Whose  garter  slipped  down  at  the  famous  dance!         [Goes. 

Mildred.  Is  she — can  she  be  really  gone  at  last? 
My  heart !  I  shall  not  reach  the  window.     Needs  70 

Must  I  have  sinned  much,  so  to  suffer! 

[She  lifts  the  small  lamp  which  is  suspended  before  the 
VirgitCs  image  in  the  window,  and  places  it  by  the 
purple  pane. 


76  A  BLOT  IX    THE   'SCUTCIIEOX. 

There  ! 
[She  returns  to  the  seat  in  front. 
Mildred  and  Mertoun  !     Mildred,  with  consent 
Of  all  the  world  and  Thorold,  Mertoun's  bride! 
Too  late !     T  is  sweet  to  think  of,  sweeter  still 
To  hope  for,  that  this  blessed  end  soothes  up 
The  curse  of  the  beginning  ;  but  I  know 
It  comes  too  late  :  't  will  sweetest  be  of  all 
To  dream  my  soul  away  and  die  upon.  [A  noise  without. 

The  voice  !     Oh  !  why,  why  glided  sin  the  snake 
Into  the  paradise  Heaven  meant  us  both?  ho 

[  The  window  opens  softly.     A  low  voice  sings. 

Tliere  \r  a  woman  like  a  dewdrop,  she  's  so  purer  than  the 

purest  ; 
And  her  noble  heart  'j  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure  faith  *t  the 

surest ; 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on  depth  of 

lustre 
Hid  f  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the  wild- 

'        grape  cluster, 
Gush   in  golden  -  tinted  plenty   down   her  neck's   rose -misted 

marble  : 
Then  her  voices  music — call  it  the  weirs  bubbling,  the  bird's 

warble  / 

[A  figure  wrapped  in  a  mantle  appears  at  the  window. 
And  this  woman  says,  '  My  days  were  sunless  and  my  nights 

were  moonless, 
Parched  the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and  the  lark's  hearts  out- 
break tuneless, 
If  you  loved  me  not  P     And  I  who — ah,  for  words  of  flame  ! — 

adore  her,  i 

Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before  her — 

[He  enters,  approaches  the  seat,  and  bends  over  her. 
I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now  her  lattice  takes  me,      91 


ACT  I.     SCEXE  III. 


77 


And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her  mitie,  as  hers  she 
makes  me! 

[  1 he  Earl  throws  off  his  slouched  hat  and  long  cloak. 
My  very  heart  sings,  so  I  sing,  beloved ! 

Mildred.  Sit,  Henry — do  not  take  my  hand ! 

Mertoun.  T  is  mine. 

The  meeting  that  appalled  us  both  so  much 
Is  ended. 

Mildred.  What  begins  now  ? 

Mertoun.  Happiness 

Such  as  the  world  contains  not. 

Mildred.  That  is  it. 

Our  happiness  would,  as  you  say,  exceed 
The  whole  world's  best  of  blisses :  we— do  we 
Deserve  that?     Utter  to  your  soul,  what  mine  100 

Long  since,  beloved,  has  grown  used  to  hear, 
Like  a  death-knell,  so  much  regarded  once, 
And  so  familiar  now  ;  this  will  not  be  ! 

Mertoun.  O  Mildred,  have  I  met  your  brother's  face, 
Compelled  myself — if  not  to  speak  untruth, 
Yet  to  disguise,  to  shun,  to  put  aside 
The  truth,  as — what  had  e'er  prevailed  on  me 
Save  you,  to  venture?     Have  I  gained  at  last 
Your  brother,  the  one  scarer  of  your  dreams, 
And  waking  thoughts'  sole  apprehension  too?  ho 

Does  a  new  life,  like  a  young  sunrise,  break 
On  the  strange  unrest  of  our  night,  confused 
With  rain  and  stormy  flaw — and  will  you  see 
No  dripping  blossoms,  no  fire-tinted  drops 
On  each  live  spray,  no  vapor  steaming  up, 
And  no  expressless  glory  in  the  east? 
When  I  am  by  you,  to  be  ever  by  you, 
When  I  have  won. you  and  may  worship  you, 
0  Mildred,  can  you  say  'this  will  not  be?' 


78  A   BLOT  IN   THE   'SCUTCHEON. 

Mildred.  Sin  has  surprised  us ;  so  will  punishment.        no 

Mertoun.  No — me  alone,  who  sinned  alone  ! 

Mildred.  The  night 

You  likened  our  past  life  to — was  it  storm 
Throughout  to  you  then,  Henry  ? 

Mertoun.  Of  your  life 

I  spoke — what  am  I,  what  my  life,  to  waste 
A  thought  about  when  you  are  by  me  ? — you 
It  was,  I  said  my  folly  called  the  storm 
And  pulled  the  night  upon.     'T  was  day  with  me — 
Perpetual  dawn  with  me. 

Mildred.  Come  what,  come  will, 

You  have  been  happy  :  take  my  hand  ! 

Mertoun  [after  a  pause].  How  good 

Your  brother  is  !     I  figured  him  a  cold —  130 

Shall  I  say,  haughty  man  ? 

Mildred.  They  told  me  all. 

I  know  all. 

Mertoun.     It  will  soon  be  over. 

Mildred.  Over  ? 

Oh!  what  is  over?  what  must  I  live  through 
And  say, '  't  is  over  ?'     Is  our  meeting  over  ? 
Have  I  received  in  presence  of  them  all 
The  partner  of  my  guilty  love — with  brow 
Trying  to  seem  a  maiden's  brow — with  lips 
Which  make  believe  that  when  they  strive  to  form 
Replies  to  you  and  tremble  as  they  strive, 
It  is  the  nearest  ever  they  approached  140 

A  stranger's — Henry,  yours  that  stranger's— lip — 
With  cheek  that  looks  a  virgin's,  and  that  is — 
Ah  !  God,  some  prodigy  of  thine  will  stop 
This  planned  piece  of  deliberate  wickedness 
In  its  birth  even  !  some  fierce  leprous  spot 
Will  mar  the  brow's  dissimulating  !     I 
Shall  murmur  no  smooth  speeches  got  by  heart, 


ACT  I.     SCENE  III. 


79 


But,  frenzied,  pour  forth  all  our  woeful  story, 

The  love,  the  shame,  and  the  despair — with  them 

Round  me  aghast  as  men  round  some  cursed  fount  150 

That  should  spirt  water,  and  spouts  blood.     I  '11  not — 

Henry,  you  do  not  wish  that  I  should  draw 

This  vengeance  down  ?     I  '11  not  affect  a  grace 

That 's  gone  from  me — gone  once,  and  gone  forever ! 

Mertoun.  Mildred,  my  honor  is  your  own.     I'll  share 
Disgrace  I  cannot  suffer  by  myself. 
A  word  informs  your  brother  I  retract 
This  morning's  offer;  time  will  yet  bring  forth 
Some  better  way  of  saving  both  of  us. 

Mildred.  I  '11  meet  their  faces,  Henry ! 

Mertoun.  When  ?  to-morrow ! 

Get  done  with  it! 

Mildred.  O  Henry,  not  to-morrow !  161 

Next  day !     I  never  shall  prepare  my  words 
And  looks  and  gestures  sooner. — How  you  must 
Despise  me ! 

Mertoun.        Mildred,  break  it  if  you  choose, 
A  heart  the  love  of  you  uplifted — still 
Uplifts,  thro'  this  protracted  agony, 
To  heaven  !  but  Mildred,  answer  me, — first  pace 
The  chamber  with  me — once  again — now,  say 
Calmly  the  part,  the — what  it  is  of  me 
You  see  contempt — for  you  did  say  contempt —  170 

Contempt  for  you  in  !     I  would  pluck  it  off 
And  cast  it  from  me! — but  no — no,  you  '11  not 
Repeat  that  ? — will  you,  Mildred,  repeat  that  ? 

Mildred.  Dear  Henry  ! 

Mertoun.  I  was  scarce  a  boy — e'en  now 

What  am  I  more?     And  you  were  infantine 
When  first  I  met  you  ;  why,  your  hair  fell  loose 
On  either  side !     My  fool's-cheek  reddens  now 
Only  in  the  recalling  how  it  burned 


80  A  BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTCH&ON. 

That  morn  to  see  the  shape  of  many  a  dream — 
You  know  we  boys  are  prodigal  of  charms  180 

To  her  we  dream  of — I  had  heard  of  one, 
Had  dreamed  of  her,  and  I  was  close  to  her, 
Might  speak  to  her,  might  live  and  die  her  own — 
Who  knew?     I  spoke.     O  Mildred,  feel  you  not 
That  now,  while  I  remember  every  glance 
Of  yours,  each  word  of  yours,  with  power  to  test 
And  weigh  them  in  the  diamond  scales  of  pride, 
Resolved  the  treasure  of  a  first  and  last 
Heart's  love  shall  have  been  bartered  at  its  worth- 
That  now  I  think  upon  your  purity  190 
And  utter  ignorance  of  guilt — your  own 
Or  other's  guiit — the  girlish  undisguised 
Delight  at  a  strange  novel  prize — I  talk 
A  silly  language,  but  interpret,  you  ! — 
If  I,  with  fancy  at  its  full,  and  reason 
Scarce  in  its  germ,  enjoined  you  secrecy, 
If  you  had  pity  on  my  passion,  pity 
On  my  protested  sickness  of  the  soul 
To  sit  beside  you,  hear  you  breathe,  and  watch 
Your  eyelids  and  the  eyes  beneath — if  you                           aoo 
Accorded  gifts  and  knew  not  they  were  gifts — 
If  I  grew  mad  at  last  with  enterprise 
And  must  behold  my  beauty  in  her  bower 
Or  perish — I  was  ignorant  of  even 
My  own  desires — what  then  were  you  ? — if  sorrow — 
Sin — if  the  end  came — must  I  now  renounce 
My  reason,  blind  myself  to  light,  say  truth 
Is  false  and  lie  to  God  and  my  own  soul  ? 
Contempt  were  all  of  this  ! 

Mildred.  Do  you  believe — 

Or,  Henry,  I  '11  not  wrong  you — you  believe  aio 

That  I  was  ignorant.     I  scarce  grieve  o'er 
The  past !     We  '11  love  on  ;  you  will  love  me  still ! 


ACT  I.     SCENE  III.  8X 

Mertoun.  Oh  !  to  love  less  what  one  has  injured  !     Dove, 
Whose  pinion  I  have  rashly  hurt,  my  breast — 
Shall  my  heart's  warmth  not  nurse  thee  into  strength? 
Flower  I  have  crushed,  shall  I  not  care  for  thee  ? 
Bloom  o'er  my  crest,  my  fight-mark  and  device  ! 
Mildred,  I  love  you  and  you  love  me  ! 

Mildred.  Go ! 

Be  that  your  last  word.     I  shall  sleep  to-night. 

Mertoun.  This  is  not  our  last  meeting? 

Mildred.  One  night  more.    220 

Mertoun.  And  then — think,  then  ! 

Mildred.  Then,  no  sweet  courtship  days, 

No  dawning  consciousness  of  love  for  us, 
No  strange  and  palpitating  births  of  sense 
From  words  and  looks,  no  innocent  fears  and  hopes, 
Reserves  and  confidences:  morning  's  over! 

Mertoun.  How  else  should  love's  perfected  noontide  follow  ? 
All  the  dawn  promised  shall  the  day  perform. 

Mildred.  So  may  it  be  !  but — 

You  are  cautious,  love? 
Are  sure  that  unobserved  you  scaled  the  walls? 

Mertoun.  Oh  !  trust  me !    Then  our  final  meeting  's  fixed  ? 
To-morrow  night? 

Mildred.  Farewell!     Stay,  Henry — wherefore  ?  231 

His  foot  is  on  the  yew-tree  bough  ;  the  turf 
Receives  him  :  now  the  moonlight  as  he  runs 
Embraces  him — but  he  must  go — is  gone. 
Ah  !  once  again  he  turns — thanks,  thanks,  my  love  ! 
He  's  gone.     Oh !  I  '11  believe  him  every  word  ! 
I  was  so  young,  1  loved  him  so,  I  had 
No  mother,  God  forgot  me,  and  I  fell. 
There  may  be  pardon  yet ;  all  's  doubt  beyond. 
Surely  the  bitterness  of  death  is  past !  240 

6 


82  A   BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


ACT  II. 

Scene. — The  Library. 
Enter  Lord  Tresham  hastily. 
This  way!     In,  Gerard,  quick  ! 

[As  Gerard  enters,  Tresham  secures  the  door. 
Now  speak  !  or,  wait — 
I  '11  bid  you  speak  directly.  [Seats  himself. 

Now  repeat 
Firmly  and  circumstantially  the  tale 
You  just  now  told  me ;  it  eludes  me  ;  either 
I  did  not  listen,  or  the  half  is  gone 
Away  from  me.     How  long  have  you  lived  here? 
Here  in  my  house,  your  father  kept  our  woods 
Before  you? 

Gerard.        As  his  father  did,  my  lord. 
I  have  been  eating,  sixty  years  almost, 
Your  bread. 

Tresham.      Yes,  yes.     You  ever  were  of  all  w 

The  servants  in  my  father's  house,  I  know, 
The  trusted  one.     You  '11  speak  the  truth. 

Gerard.  I  '11  speak 

God's  truth.     Night  after  night — 

Tresham.  Since  when  ? 

Gerard.  At  least 

A  month— each  midnight  has  some  man  access 
To  Lady  Mildred's  chamber. 

Tresham.  Tush,  '  access ' — 

No  wide  words  like  'access'  to  me! 

Gerard.  He  runs 


ACT  II.  83 

Along  the  woodside,  crosses  to  the  south, 
Takes  the  left  tree  that  ends  the  avenue — 

Tresham.  The  last  great  yew-tree? 

Gerard.  You  might  stand  upon 

The  main  boughs  like  a  platform.     Then  he — '■ 

Tresham,  Quick !         *> 

Gerard.  Climbs  up,  and,  where  they  lessen  at  the  top — 
I  cannot  see  distinctly,  but  he  throws, 
I  think — for  this  I  do  not  vouch — a  line 
That  reaches  to  the  lady's  casement — 

Tresham.  Which 

He  enters  not !     Gerard,  some  wretched  fool 
Dares  pry  into  my  sister's  privacy  ! 
When  such  are  young,  it  seems  a  precious  thing 
To  have  approached, — to  merely  have  approached, 
Got  sight  of,  the  abode  of  her  they  set 

Their  frantic  thoughts  upon  !     He  does  not  enter?  30 

Gerard  ? 

Gerard.  There  is  a  lamp  that 's  full  i'  the  midst, 
Under  a  red  square  in  the  painted  glass 
Of  Lady  Mildred's — 

Tresham.  Leave  that  name  out !     Well  ? 

That  lamp? 

Gerard.        Is  moved  at  midnight  higher  up 
To  one  pane — a  small  dark-blue  pane  ;  he  waits 
For  that  among  the  boughs :  at  sight  of  that, 
I  see  him,  plain  as  I  see  you,  my  lord, 
Open  the  lady's  casement,  enter  there — 

Tresham.  And  stay  ? 

Gerard.  An  hour,  two  hours. 

Tresham.  And  this  you  saw 

Once  ? — twice  ?  — quick  ! 

Gerard.  Twenty  times. 

Tresham.  And  what  brings  you 

Under  the  yew-trees? 


S4  A  BLOT  JN   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 

Gerard.  The  first  night  I  left  4» 

My  range  so  far,  to  track  the  stranger  stag 
That  broke  the  pale,  I  saw  the  man. 

Treshatn.  Yet  sent 

No  cross-bow  shaft  through  the  marauder  ? 

Gerard.  But 

He  came,  my  lord,  the  first  time  he  was  seen, 
In  a  great  moonlight,  light  as  any  day, 
From  Lady  Mildred's  chamber. 

Treshatn  [after  a  pause].  You  have  no  cause — 
Who  could  have  cause  to  do  my  sister  wrong  ? 

Gerard.  O  my  lord,  only  once — let  me  this  once 
Speak  what  is  on  my  mind  !     Since  first  I  noted  5« 

All  this,  I  've  groaned  as  if  a  fiery  net 
Plucked  me  this  way  and  that — fire,  if  I  turned 
To  her,  fire  if  I  turned  to  you,  and  fire, 
If  down  I  flung  myself  and  strove  to  die. 
The  lady  could  not  have  been  seven  years  old 
When  I  was  trusted  to  conduct  her  safe 
Through  the  deer-herd  to  stroke  the  snow-white  fawn 
I  brought  to  eat  bread  from  her  tiny  hand 
Within  a  month.     She  ever  had  a  smile 
To  greet  me  with — she — if  it  could  undo  60 

What 's  done  to  lop  each  limb  from  off  this  trunk — 
All  that  is  foolish  talk,  not  fit  for  you — 
I  mean,  I  could  not  speak  and  bring  her  hurt 
For  Heaven's  compelling.     But  when  I  was  fixed 
To  hold  my  peace,  each  morsel  of  your  food 
Eaten  beneath  your  roof,  my  birthplace  too, 
Choked  me.     I  wish  I  had  grown  mad  in  doubts 
What  it  behooved  me  do.     This  morn  it  seemed 
Either  I  must  confess  to  you,  or  die  : 

Now  it  is  done,  I  seem  the  vilest  worm  70 

That  crawls,  to  have  betrayed  my  lady ! 

Treshatn.  No — 

No,  Gerard  1 


ACT  II.  85 

Gerard.         Let  me  go  1 

Tresham.  A  man,  you  say  : 

Whatman?     Young?     Not  a  vulgar  hind  ?     What  dress? 

Gerard.  A  slouched  hat  and  a  large  dark  foreign  cloak 
Wraps  his  whole  form  ;  even  his  face  is  hid ; 
But  I  should  judge  him  young:  no  hind,  be  sure  ! 

Tresham.  Why? 

Gerard.  He  is  ever  armed :  his  sword  projects 

Beneath  the  cloak. 

Tresham.  Gerard, — I  will  not  say 

No  word,  no  breath  of  this  ! 

Gerard.  Thanks,  thanks,  my  lord  !  [Goes. 

Tresham  paces  the  room.     After  a  pause, 
Oh !  thought 's  absurd  ! — as  with  some  monstrous  fact         80 
Which,  when  ill  thoughts  beset  us,  seems  to  give 
Merciful  God  that  made  the  sun  and  stars, 
The  waters  and  the  green  delights  of  earth, 
The  lie !     I  apprehend  the  monstrous  fact — 
Yet  know  the  Maker  of  all  worlds  is  good, 
And  yield  my  reason  up,  inadequate 
To  reconcile  what  yet  I  do  behold — 
Blasting  my  sense  !     There  's  cheerful  day  outside : 
This  is  my  libra/y,  and  this  the  chair 

My  father  used  to  sit  in  carelessly  90 

After  his  soldier  fashion,  while  I  stood 
Between  his  knees  to  question  him ;  and  here 
Gerard  our  gray  retainer — as  he  says, 
Fed  with  our  food,  from  sire  to  son,  an  age — 
Has  told  a  story — I  am  to  believe ! 
That  Mildred — oh,  no,  no!  both  tales  are  true, 
Her  pure  cheek's  story  and  the  forester's  ! 
Would  she,  or  could  she,  err— much  less,  confound 
All  guilts  of  treachery,  of  craft,  of — Heaven 
Keep  me  within  its  hand  ! — I  will  sit  here  100 


86  A   BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 

Until  thought  settle  and  I  see  my  course. 
Avert,  O  God,  only  this  woe  from  me  ! 

[As  he  sinks  his  head  between  his  arms  on  the  table, 
Guendolen"  s  voice  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Lord  Tresham  !  [She  knocks.]  Is  Lord  Tresham  there? 

[Tresham,  hastily  turning,  pulls  down  the  first  book 
above  his  head  and  opens  it. 

Tresham.  Come  in  !     [She  enters. 

Ha  !  Guendolen — good  morning. 

Guendolen.  Nothing  more? 

Tresham.  What  should  I  say  more  ? 

Guendolen.  Pleasant  question  !  more? 

This  more.     Did  I  besiege  poor  Mildred's  brain 
Last  night  till  close  on  morning  with  'the  Earl,' 
'  The  Earl ' — whose  worth  did  I  asseverate 
Till  I  am  very  fain  to  hope  that — Thorold, 
What  is  all  this  ?     You  are  not  well ! 

Tresham.  Who  ?  I  ?  no 

You  laugh  at  me. 

Guendolen.  Has  what  I  'm  fain  to  hope 

Arrived  then  ?     Does  that  huge  tome  show  some  blot 
In  the  Earl's  'scutcheon  come  no  longer  back 
Than  Arthur's  time  ? 

Tresham.  When  left  you  Mildned's  chamber? 

Guendolen.  Oh !  late  enough,  I  told  you  !    The  main  thing 
To  ask  is,  how  I  left  her  chamber, — sure, 
Content  yourself,  she  Ml  grant  this  paragon 
Of  earls  no  such  ungracious — 

Tresham.  Send  her  here  ! 

Guendolen.  Thorold? 

Tresham.  I  mean — acquaint  her,  Guendolen, — 

But  mildly! 

Guendolen.  Mildly? 

Tresham.  Ah  !  you  guessed  aright.  iao 

I  am  not  well :  there  is  no  hiding  it. 


ACT  II.  87 

But  tell  her  I  would  see  her  at  her  leisure — 

That  is,  at  once  !  here  in  the  library ! 

The  passage  in  that  old  Italian  book 

We  hunted  for  so  long  is  found,  say,  found — 

And  if  I  let  it  slip  again — you  see, 

That  she  must  come — and  instantly  ! 

Guendolen.  I  '11  die 

Piecemeal,  record  that,  if  there  have  not  gloomed 
Some  blot  i'  the  'scutcheon  ! 

,    Tresham.  Go  !  or,  Guendolen, 

Be  you  at  call, — with  Austin,  if  you  choose, —  13° 

In  the  adjoining  gallery  !     There,  go  !  {Guendolen  goes. 

Another  lesson  to  me !     You  might  bid 
A  child  disguise  his  heart's  sore,  and  conduct 
Some  sly  investigation  point  by  point 
With  a  smooth  brow,  as  well  as  bid  me  catch 
The  inquisitorial  cleverness  some  praise  ! 
If  you  had  told  me  yesterday,  'There  's  one 
You  needs  must  circumvent  and  practise  with, 
Kntrap  by  policies,  if  you  would  worm 

The  truth  out ;  and  that  one  is — Mildred  P     There,  140 

There — reasoning  is  thrown  away  on  it ! 
Prove  she  's  unchaste — why,  you  may  after  prove 
That  she  's  a  poisoner,  traitress,  what  you  will ! 
Where  I  can  comprehend  nought,  nought 's  to  say. 
Or  do,  or  think  ?     Force  on  me  but  the  first 
Abomination  — then  outpour  all  plagues, 
And  I  shall  ne'er  make  count  of  them  ! 

Enter  Mildred. 
Mildred.  What  book 

Is  it  I  wanted,  Thorold  ?     Guendolen 
Thought  you  were  pale  ;  you  are  not  pale.      That  book? 
That  's  Latin  surely. 

kam.  Mildred,  here's  a  line —  15° 


88  A   BLOT  IN  THE  'SCUTCHEON. 

Don't  lean  on  me :  I  '11  English  it  for  you — 

1  Love  conquers  nil  things.'     What  love  conquers  them  ? 

What  love  should  you  esteem — best  love  ? 

Mildred.  True  love. 

Iresham.  I  mean,  and  should  have  said,  whose  love  is 
best 
Of  all  that  love  or  that  profess  to  love? 

Mildred.  The  list  's  so  long:  there  's  father's,  mother's, 
husband's — 

Treshatn.  Mildred,  I  do  believe  a  brother's  love 
For  a  sole  sister  must  exceed  them  all. 
For  see  now,  only  see  !  there  's  no  alloy 
Of  earth  that  creeps  into  the  perfect'st  gold    -  160 

Of  other  loves — no  gratitude  to  claim  ; 
You  never  gave  her  life,  not  even  aught 
That  keeps  life — never  tended  her,  instructed, 
Enriched  her — so  your  love  can  claim  no  right 
O'er  her  save  pure  love's  claim  :  that  's  what  I  call 
Freedom  from  earthliness.     You  Ml  never  hope 
To  be  such  friends,  for  instance,  she  and  you, 
As  when  you  hunted  cowslips  in  the  woods 
Or  played  together  in  the  meadow  hay. 
Oh  !  yes — with  age,  respect  comes,  and  your  worth  i7o 

Is  felt,  there  's  growing  sympathy  of  tastes, 
There  's  ripened  friendship,  there  's  confirmed  esteem  : — 
Much  head  these  make  against  the  new-comer! 
The  startling  apparition,  the  strange  youth — 
Whom  one  half-hour's  conversing  with,  or,  say, 
Mere  gazing  at,  shall  change — beyond  all  change 
This  Ovid  ever  sang  about — your  soul — 
Her  soul,  that  is, — the  sister's  soul !     With  her 
T  was  winter  yesterday  ;  now,  all  is  warmth, 
The  green  leaf's  springing  and  the  turtle's  voice,  180 

'  Arise  and  come  away!'     Come  whither?-— far 
Enough  from  the  esteem,  respect,  and  all 


ACT  II.  ,        89 

The  brother's  somewhat  insignificant 

Array  of  rights  !     All  which  he  knows  before, 

Has  calculated  on  so  long  ago ! 

I  think  such  love — apart  from  yours  and  mine — 

Contented  with  its  little  term  of  life, 

Intending  to  retire  betimes,  aware 

How  soon  the  background  must  be  place  for  it, — 

I  think,  am  sure,  a  brother's  love  exceeds  190 

All  the  world's  love  in  its  unworldliness. 

Mildred.  What  is  this  for  ? 

Tresham.  This,  Mildred,  is  it  for  ! 

Or,  no,  I  cannot  go  to  it  so  soon! 
That 's  one  of  many  points  my  haste  left  out — 
Each  day,  each  hour  throws  forth  its  silk-like  film 
Between  the  being  tied  to  you  by  birth, 
And  you,  until  those  slender  threads  compose 
A  web  that  shrouds  her  daily  life  of  hopes 
And  fears  and  fancies,  all  her  life,  from  yours: 
So  close  you  live  and  yet  so  far  apart !  200 

And  must  I  rend  this  web,  tear  up,  break  down 
The  sweet  and  palpitating  mystery 
That  makes  her  sacred?     You,  for  you  I  mean, 
Shall  I  speak,  shall  I  not  speak  ? 

Mildred.  Speak ! 

Tresham.  I  will. 

Is  there  a  story  men  could — any  man 
Could  tell  of  you,  you  would  conceal  from  me? 
I  '11  never  think  there  's  falsehood  on  that  lip. 
Say  'There  is  no  such  story  men  could  tell,' 
And  I  '11  believe  you,  though  I  disbelieve 
The  world — the  world  of  belter  men  than  I,  aio 

And  women  such  as  I  suppose  you.     Speak  ! 

r  it  pause!\  Not  speak?     Explain  then!     Clear  it  up 
then  !     Move 
Some  of  the  miserable  weight  away 


90  A  blot  W  riiK  'SCUTCHBON. 

That  presses  lower  than  the  grave  !     Not  speak  ? 

Some  of  the  dead  weight,  Mildred !     Ah,  if  I 

Could  bring  myself  to  plainly  make  their  charge 

Against  you  !     Must  I,  Mildred?     Silent  still? 

[After  a  pause]    Is  there  a  gallant  that  has  night  by  night 

Admittance  to  your  chamber? 

[After  a  pause]  Then,  his  name  ! 

Till  now,  I  only  had  a  thought  for  you :  a»> 

But  now, — his  name  ! 

Mildred.  Thorold,  do  you  devise 

Fit  expiation  for  my  guilt,  if. fit 
There  be !     T  is  nought  to  say  that  I  '11  endure 
And  bless  you, — that  my  spirit  yearns  to  purge 
Her  stains  off  in  the  fierce  renewing  fire  : 
But  do  not  plunge  me  into  other  guilt ! 
Oh,  guilt  enough  !     I  cannot  tell  his  name. 

Tresham.  Then  judge  yourself !    How  should  I  act  ?    Pro- 
nounce ! 

Mildred.  O  Thorold,  you  must  never  tempt  me  thus! 
To  die  here  in  this  chamber  by  that  sword  23o 

Would  seem  like  punishment:  so  should  I  glide, 
Like  an  arch-cheat,  into  extremest  bliss! 
'T  were  easily  arranged  for  me  :  but  you — 
What  would  become  of  you? 

Tresham.  And  what  will  now 

Become  of  me?     I  '11  hide  your  shame  and  mine 
From  every  eye ;  the  dead  must  heave  their  hearts 
Under  the  marble  of  our  chapel-floor ; 
They  cannot  rise  and  blast  you.     You  may  wed 
Your  paramour  above  our  mother's  tomb ; 
Our  mother  cannot  move  from  'neath  your  foot.  =4° 

We  too  will  somehow  wear  this  one  day  out : 
But  with  to-morrow  hastens  here — the  Earl ! 
The  youth  without  suspicion  that  faces  come 
From  heaven,  and  hearts  from — whence  proceed  such  hearts  ? 


ACT  If.  9! 

I  have  dispatched  last  night  at  your  command 

A  missive  bidding  him  present  himself 

To-morrow — here-«-thus  much  is  said ;  the  rest 

Is  understood  as  if 't  were  written  clown — 

1  His  suit  finds  favour  in  your  eyes  :' — now  dictate 

This  morning's  letter  that  shall  countermand  25° 

Last  night's — do  dictate  that ! 

Mildred.  But  Thorold— if 

I  will  receive  him  as  I  said? 

Tresham.  The  Earl  ? 

Mildred.  I  will  receive  him. 

Tresham  [starting  up].  Ho  there !  Guendolen  ! 

Guendolen  and  Austin  enter. 
And,  Austin,  you  are  welcome,  too  !     Look  there ! 
The  woman  there  ! 

Austin  and  Guendolen.  How?  Mildred? 

Tresham.  Mildred  once  ! 

Now  the  receiver  night  by  night,  when  sleep 
Blesses  the  inmates  of  her  father's  house — 
I  say,  the  soft  sly  wanton  that  receives 
Her  guilt's  accomplice  'neath  this  roof  which  holds 
You,  Guendolen,  you,  Austin,  and  has  held  360 

A  thousand  Treshams — never  one  like  her ! 
No  lighter  of  the  signal-lamp  her  quick 
Foul  breath  near  quenches  in  hot  eagerness 
To  mix  with  breath  as  foul !  no  loosener 
O'  the  lattice,  practised  in  the  stealthy  tread, 
The  low  voice,  and  the  noiseless  come-and-go  !         * 
Not  one  composer  of  the  bacchant's  mien 
Into — what  you  thought  Mildred's,  in  a  word! 
Know  her! 

Guendolen.  O  Mildred,  look  to  me,  at  least ! 
Thorold — she  's  dead,  I  'd  say,  but  that  she  stands  rjo 

Rigid  as  stone  and  whiter  ! 


92 


A    1U.OT  IX    THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


Tresham.  You  have  heard — 

Guendolett.  Too  much  !     You  must  proceed  no  further. 

Mildred.  Yes- 

Proceed  !     All 's  truth.     Go  from  me  ! 

Tresham.  All  is  truth, 

She  tells  you !     Well,  you  know,  or  ought  to  know, 
All  this  I  would  forgive  in  her.     I  'd  con 
Each  precept  the  harsh  world  enjoins,  I  'd  take 
Our  ancestors'  stern  verdicts  one  by  one, 
1  'd  bind  myself  before  them  to  exact 
The  prescribed  vengeance — and  one  word  of  hers, 
The  sight  of  her,  the  bare  least  memory  280 

Of  Mildred,  my  one  sister,  my  heart's  pride 
Above  all  prides,  my  all  in  all  so  long, 
Would  scatter  every  trace  of  my  resolve. 
What  were  it  silently  to  waste  away 
And  see  her  waste  away  from  this  day  forth, 
Two  scathed  things  with  leisure  to  repent, 
And  grow  acquainted  with  the  grave,  and  die 
Tired  out  if  not  at  peace,  and  be  forgotten  ? 
It  were  not  so  impossible  to  bear. 

But  this — that,  fresh  from  last  night's  pledge  renewed        290 
Of  love  with  the  successful  gallant  there, 
She  calmly  bids  me  help  her  to  entice, 
Inveigle  an  unconscious,  trusting  youth 
Who  thinks  her  all  that 's  chaste  and  good  and  pure — 
Invites  me  to  betray  him — who  so  fit 
As  honor's  self  to  cover  shame's  arch-deed  ? — 
That  she  '11  receive  Lord  Mertoun — her  own  phrase — 
This,  who  could  bear?     Why,  you  have  heard  of  thieves, 
Stabbers,  the  earth's  disgrace,  who  yet  have  laughed, 
'  Talk  not  to  me  of  torture — I  '11  betray  300 

No  comrade  I  've  pledged  faith  to !' — you  have  heard 
Of  wretched  women — all  but  Mildreds — tied 
Bv  wild  illicit  ties  to  losels  vile 


ACT  II.  93 

You  'd  tempt  them  to  forsake  ;  and  they  '11  reply 

'  Gold,  friends,  repute,  I  left  for  him,  I  find 

In  him,  why  should  I  leave  him  then  for  gold, 

Repute  or  friends?' — and  you  have  felt  your  heart 

Respond  to  such  poor  outcasts  of  the  world 

As  to  so  many  friends  ;  bad  as  you  please, 

You've  felt  they  were  God's  men  and  women  still,  3«c 

So  not  to  be  disowned  by  you.     But  she 

That  stands  there,  calmly  gives  her  lover  up 

As  means  to  wed  the  Earl  that  she  may  hide 

Their  intercourse  the  surelier;  and,  for  this, 

I  curse  her  to  her  face  before  you  all. 

Shame  hunt  her  from  the  earth  !     Then  Heaven  do  right 

To  both  !     It  hears  me  now — shall  judge  her  then  ! 

[As  Mildred  faints  and  falls,  Tresham  rushes  out. 

Austin.  Stay,  Tresham,  we  '11  accompany  you  ! 

Guendolen.  We  ? 

What,  and  leave  Mildred?     We?     Why,  where  's  my  place 
But  by  her  side,  and  where  yours  but  by  mine?  320 

Mildred — one  word  !     Only  look  at  me,  then  ! 

Austin.     No,  Guendolen  !     I  echo  Thorold's  voice. 
She  is  unworthy  to  behold — 

Guendolen.  Us  two  ? 

If  you  spoke  on  reflection,  and  if  I 
Approved  your  speech — rf  you — to  put  the  thing 
At  lowest — you  the  soldier,  bound  to  make 
The  king's  cause  yours  and  fight  for  it,  and  throw 
Regard  to  others  of  its  right  or  wrong — 
If  with  a  death-white  woman  you  can  help, 
Let  alone  sister,  let  alone  a  Mildred,  33o 

You  left  her — or  if  I,  her  cousin,  friend 
This  morning,  playfellow  but  yesterday, 
Who  said,  or  thought  at  least  a  thousand  times, 
'  I  \1  serve  you  if  I  could,'  should  now  face  round 
And  say,  '  All !  that  's  to  only  signify 


94 


A    BLOT  IN   THE    'SCUTCHEON. 


I  'd  serve  you  while  you  're  fit  to  serve  yourself — 

So  long  as  fifty  eyes  await  the  turn 

Of  yours  to  forestall  its  yet  half-formed  wish, 

1  '11  proffer  my  assistance  you  '11  not  need — 

When  every  tongue  is  praising  you,  I  '11  join  340 

The  praisers'  chorus — when  you  're  hemmed  about 

With  lives  between  you  and  detraction — lives 

To  be  laid  down  if  a  rude  voice,  rash  eye, 

Rough  hand  should  violate  the  sacred  ring 

Their  worship  throws  about  you, — then  indeed, 

Who  '11  stand  up  for  you  stout  as  I  ?'     If  so 

We  said,  and  so  we  did, — not  Mildred  there 

Would  be  unworthy  to  behold  us  both, 

But  we  should  be  unworthy,  both  of  us, 

To  be  beheld  by — by — your  meanest  dog,  35° 

Which,  if  that  sword  were  broken  in  your  face 

Before  a  crowd,  that  badge  torn  off  your  breast, 

And  you  cast  out  with  hooting  and  contempt, 

Would  push  his  way  through  all  the  hooters,  gain 

Your  side,  go  off  with  you  and  all  your  shame 

To  the  next  ditch  you  choose  to  die  in  !     Austin, 

Do  you  love  me  ?     Here  's  Austin,  Mildred, — here  's 

Your  brother  says  he  does  not  believe  half — 

No,  nor  half  that — of  all  he  heard !     He  says, 

Look  up  and  take  his  hand ! 

Austin.  Look  up  and  take  360 

My  hand,  dear  Mildred ! 

Mildred.  I — I  was  so  young  ! 

Beside,  I  loved  him,  Thorold — and  I  had 
No  mother ;  God  forgot  me :  so  I  fell. 

Guendolen.  Mildred ! 

Mildred.  Require  no  further!     Did  I  dream 

That  I  could  palliate  what  is  done  ?     All 's  true. 
Now  punish  me  !     A  woman  takes  my  hand  ? 
Let  go  my  hand  !     You  do  not  know,  I  see. 
I  thought  that  Thorold  told  you. 


ACT  II. 


95 


Guendohn.  What  is  this  ? 

Where  start  you  to  ? 

Mildred.  O  Austin,  loosen  me  ! 

You  heard  the  whole  of  it — your  eyes  were  worse,  370 

In  their  surprise,  than  Thorold's  !     Oh!  unless 
You  stay  to  execute  his  sentence,  loose 
My  hand  !      Has  Thorold  gone,  and  are  you  here? 

Guendolen.  Here,  Mildred,  we  two  friends  of  yours  will  wail 
Your  bidding  ;  be  you  silent,  sleep  or  muse  ! 
Only,  when  you  shall  want  your  bidding  done, 
How  can  we  do  it  if  we  are  not  by  ? 
Here  's  Austin  waiting  patiently  your  will. 
One  spirit  to  command,  and  one  to  love 
And  to  believe  in  it  and  do  its  best,  380 

Poor  as  that  is,  to  help  it — why,  the  world 
Has  been  won  many  a  time,  its  length  and  breadth, 
By  just  such  a  beginning! 

Mildred.  I  believe 

If  once  I  threw  my  arms  about  your  neck 
And  sunk  my  head  upon  your  breast,  that  I 
Should  weep  again. 

Guendolen.  Let  go  her  hand  now,  Austin. 

Wait  for  me.     Pace  the  gallery  and  think 
On  the  world's  seemings  and  realities, 
Until  I  call  you.  {Austin  goes. 

Mildred.  No — I  cannot  weep. 

No  more  tears  from  this  brain — no  sleep — no  tears  !  390 

O  Guendolen,  I  love  you ! 

Guendolen.  Yes :  and  '  love ' 

Is  a  short  word  that  says  so  very  much ! 
It  says  that  you  confide  in  me. 

Mildred.  Confide ! 

Guendolen.  Your  lover's  name,  then !     I  've  so  much  to 
learn, 
Ere  I  can  work  in  your  behalf! 


96 


A   BLOT  IN   THE   \V< V / V  ///-.  ON. 


Mildred.  My  friend, 

Vou  know  I  cannot  tell  his  name. 

Guendolen.  At  least 

He  is  your  lover?  and  you  love  him  too? 

Mildred.  Ah  !  do  you  ask  me  that  ? — but  I  am  fallen 
So  low  ! 

Guendolen.  You  love  him  still,  then  ? 

Mildred.  My  sole  prop 

Against  the  guilt  that  crushes  me  !     I  say,  4°° 

Each  night  ere  I  lie  down, '  I  was  so  young — 
I  had  no  mother,  and  I  loved  him  so !' 
And  then  God  seems  indulgent,  and  I  dare 
Trust  him  my  soul  in  sleep. 

Guendolen.  How  could  you  let  us 

E'en  talk  to  you  about  Lord  Mertoun  then  ? 

Mildred.  There  is  a  cloud  around  me. 

Guendolen.  But  you  said 

You  would  receive  his  suit  in  spite  of  this? 

Mildred.  I  say  there  is  a  cloud — 

Guendolen.  No  cloud  to  me ! 

Lord  Mertoun  and  your  lover  are  the  same! 

Mildred.  What  maddest  fancy — 

Guendolen  [calling  aloud].  Austin  ! — spare  your  pains — 
When  I  have  got  a  truth,  that  truth  I  keep —  411 

Mildred.  By  all  you  love,  sweet  Guendolen,  forbear ! 
Have  I  confided  in  you— 

Guendolen.  Just  for  this! 

Austin  ! — Oh !  not  to  guess  it  at  the  first ! 
But  T  did  guess  it — that  is,  I  divined, 
Felt  by  an  instinct  how  it  was :  why  else 
Should  I  pronounce  you  free  from  all  that  heap 
Of  sins  which  had  been  irredeemable  ? 
1  felt  they  were  not  yours — what  other  way 
Than  this,  not  yours  ?     The  secret 's  wholly  mine  !  4»° 

Mildred.  If  you  would  see  me  die  before  his  face — 


ACT  II. 


97 


Guendolen.  I  'd  hold  my  peace  !     And  if  the  Earl  returns 
To-night  ?. 

Mildred.  Ah  !  Heaven,  he  's  lost ! 

Guendolen.  I  thought  so.     Austin  ! 

[Enter  Austin. 
Oh  !  where  have  you  been  hiding? 

Austin.  Thorold  's  gone, 

I  know  not  how,  across  the  meadow-land. 
I  watched  him  till  I  lost  him  in  the  skirts 
O'  the  beech-wood. 

Guendolen.  Gone  ?     All  thwarts  us. 

Mildred.  Thorold  too? 

Guendolen.  I  have  thought..    First  lead  this  Mildred  to 
her  room. 
Go  on  the  other  side ;  and  then  we  '11  seek 
Your  brother  :  and  I  '11  tell  you,  by  the  way,  430 

The  greatest  comfort  in  the  world.     You  said 
There  was  a  clue  to  all.     Remember,  sweet, 
He  said  there  was  a  clue !     I  hold  it.     Come! 


98  A   BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.     7he  end  of  the  Yew-tree  Avenue  under  Mildred's 
window.     A  light  seen  through  a  central  red  pane. 

Enter  Tresham  through  the  trees. 

Again  here !     But  I  cannot  lose  myself. 
The  heath — the  orchard — I  have  traversed  glades 
And  dells  and  bosky  paths  which  used  to  lead 
Into  green  wildwood  depths,  bewildering 
My  boy's  adventurous  step.     And  now  they  tend 
Hither  or  soon  or  late ;  the  blackest  shade 
Breaks  up,  the  thronged  trunks  of  the  trees  ope  wide, 
And  the  dim  turret  I  have  fled  from  fronts 
Again  my  step ;  the  very  river  put 

Its  arm  about  me  and  conducted  me  10 

To  this  detested  spot.     Why  then,  I  '11  shun 
Their  will  no  longer :  do  your  will  with  me ! 
Oh,  bitter !     To  have  reared  a  towering  scheme 
Of  happiness,  and  to  behold  it  razed, 
Were  nothing :  all  men  hope,  and  see  their  hopes 
Frustrate,  and  grieve  awhile,  and  hope  anew. 
But  I — to  hope  that  from  a  line  like  ours 
No  horrid  prodigy  like  this  would  spring, 
,Were  just  as  though  I  hoped  that  from  these  old 
Confederates  against  the  sovereign  day,  »> 

Children  of  older  and  yet  older  sires, 
Whose  living  coral  berries  dropped,  as  now 
On  me,  on  many  a  baron's  surcoat  once, 
On  many  a  beauty's  wimple  would  proceed 


ACT  III.     SCENE   I. 


99 


No  poison-tree,  to  thrust,  from  hell  its  root, 
Hither  and  thither  its  strange  snaky  arms. 
Why  came  I  here?     What  must  I  do?  [A  bell  strikes. 

A  bell  ? 
Midnight!  and  't  is  at  midnight — Ah  !  I  catch — 
Woods,  river,  plains,  I  catch  your  meaning  now, 
And  I  obey  you  !     Hist !     This  tree  will  serve.  3° 

[He  retires  behind  one  of  the  trees.     After  a  pause,  enter 
Mertoun  cloaked  as  before. 
Mertoun.  Not  time  !     Beat  out  thy  last  voluptuous  beat 
Of  hope  and  fear,  my  heart !     I  thought  the  clock 
I'  the  chapel  struck  as  I  was  pushing  through 
The  ferns.     And  so  I  shall  no  more  see  rise 
My  love-star !     Oh  !  no  matter  for  the  past ! 
So  much  the  more  delicious  task  to  watch 
Mildred  revive  ;  to  pluck  out,  thorn  by  thorn, 
All  traces  of  the  rough  forbidden  path 
My  rash  love  lured  her  to !     Each  day  must  see 
Some  fear  of  hers  effaced,  some  hope  renewed  ;  4° 

Then  there  will  be  surprises,  unforeseen 
Delights  in  store.     I  Ml  not  regret  the  past. 

[The  light  is  placed  above  in  the  purple  pane. 
And  see,  my  signal  rises,  Mildred's  star  ! 
1  never  saw  it  lovelier  than  now 
It  rises  for  the  last  time.     If  it  sets, 
'T  is  that  the  re-assuring  sun  may  dawn. 

[As  he  prepares  to  ascend  the  last  tree  of  the  avenue, 
Tresham  arrests  his  arm. 
Unhand  me — peasant,  by  your  grasp  !     Here  's  gold. 
T  was  a  mad  freak  of  mine.     I  said  I  'd  pluck 
A  branch  from  the  white-blossomed  shrub  beneath 
The  casement  there.     Take  this,  and  hold  your  peace.        50 

Tresham.   Into  the  moonlight  yonder,  come  with  me  ! — 
Out  of  the  shadow  ! 

Mertoun.  I  am  armed,  fool ! 


IOO  A   BLOT  /.Y   THE  %SCUTCHEON. 

Tresham.  Yes, 

Or  no?     You  '11  come  into  the  light,  or  no? 
My  hand  is  on  your  throat — refuse ! — 

Mertoun.  That  voice 

Where  have  I  heard — no — that  was  mild  and  slow. — 
I  '11  come  with  you.  [They  advance. 

Tresham.  You  're  armed  :  that 's  well.     Declare 

Your  name — who  are  you  ? 

Mertoun.  Tresham  ? — she  is  lost ! 

Tresham.  Oh  !  silent?     Do  you  know,  you  bear  yourself 
Exactly  as,  in  curious  dreams  I  've  had 
How  felons  this  wild  earth  is  full  of  look  60 

When  they  're  detected,  still  your  kind  has  looked! 
The  bravo  holds  an  assured  countenance, 
The  thief  is  voluble  and  plausible, 
But  silently  the  slave  of  lust  has  crouched 
When  I  have  fancied  it  before  a  man. 
Your  name  ? 

Mertoun.       I  do  conjure  Lord  Tresham — ay, 
Kissing  his  foot,  if  so  I  might  prevail — 
That  he  for  his  own  sake  forbear  to  ask 
My  name !     As  heaven  's  above,  his  future  weal 
Or  woe  depends  upon  my  silence  !     Vain  !  7o 

I  read  your  white  inexorable  face. 
Know  me,  Lord  Tresham  !  [He  throws  off  his  disguises. 

Tresham.  Mertoun ! 

[After  a  pause~\  Draw  now  ! 

Mertoun.  Hear  me 

But  speak  first ! 

Tresham.  Not  one  least  word  on  your  life ! 

Be  sure  that  I  will  strangle  in  your  throat 
The  least  word  that  informs  me  how  you  live 
And  yet  seem  what  you  seem  !     No  doubt 't  was  you 
Taught  Mildred  still  to  keep  that  face  and  sin. 
We  should  join  hands  in  frantic  sympathy 


ACT  III.     SCENE  I.  IOi 

If  you  once  taught  me  the  unteachable, 

Explained  how  you  can  live  so,  and  so  lie.  80 

With  God's  help  I  retain,  despite  my  sense, 

The  old  belief — a  life  like  yours  is  still 

Impossible.     Now  draw! 

Mertoun.  Not  for  my  sake, 

Do  I  entreat  a  hearing — for  your  sake, 
And  most,  for  her  sake  ! 

Treshatn.  Ha  ha,  what  should  I 

Know  of  your  ways?     A  miscreant  like  yourself, 
How  must  one  rouse  his  ire?     A  blow? — that 's  pride 
No  doubt  to  him  !     One  spurns  him,  does  one  not? 
Or  sets  the  foot  upon  his  mouth,  or  spits 
Into  his  face  !     Come  !     Which,  or  all  of  these  ?  90 

Mertoun.  'Twixt  him   and    me  and  Mildred,  Heaven   be 
judge ! 
Can  I  avoid  this?     Have  your  will,  my  lord ! 

\He  draws  and,  after  a  few  passes,  falls. 

Treshatn.  You  are  not  hurt? 

Mertoun.  You  '11  hear  me  now  ! 

Tresham.  But  rise  ! 

Mertoun.  Ah  !  Tresham,  say  I  not  'you  '11  hear  me  now?' 
And  what  procures  a  man  the  right  to  speak 
In  his  defence  before  his  fellow-man, 
But — I  suppose — the  thought  that  presently 
He  may  have  leave  to  speak  before  his  God 
His  whole  defence?   ■ 

Tresham.  Not  hurt?     It  cannot  be! 

You  made  no  effort  to  resist  me.     Where  100 

Did  my  sword  reach  you?     Why  not  have  returned 
My  thrusts?     Hurt  where? 

Mertoun.  My  lord — 

Tresham.  How  young  he  is  ! 

Mertoun.  Lord  Tresham,  I  am  very  young,  and  yet 
I  have  entangled  other  lives  with  mine. 


102  A   BLOT  /Ar   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 

Do  let  me  speak,  and  do  believe  my  speech  ! 
That  when  I  die  before  you  presently — 

Tresham.  Can  you  stay  here  till  I  return  with  help? 

Mertoun.  Oh  !  stay  by  me  !     When  I  was  less  than  boy 
I  did  you  grievous  wrong  and  knew  it  not — 
Upon  my  honor,  knew  it  not !     Once  known,  no 

I  could  not  find  what  seemed  a  better  way 
To  right  you  than  I  took :  my  life — you  feel 
How  less  than  nothing  were  the  giving  you 
The  life  you  've  taken  !     But  I  thought  my  way 
The  better — only  for  your  sake  and  hers  : 
And  as  you  have  decided  otherwise, 
Would  I  had  an  infinity  of  lives 
To  offer  you  !     Now  say — instruct  me — think 
Can  you  from  the  brief  minutes  I  have  left 
Eke  out  my  reparation  ?     Oh!  think — think!  i»o 

For  I  must  wring  a  partial — dare  I  say, 
Forgiveness  from  you,  ere  I  die  ? 

Tresham.  I  do 

Forgive  you. 

Mertoun.       Wait  and  ponder  that  great  word  ! 
Because,  if  you  forgive  me,  I  shall  hope 
To  speak  to  you  of — Mildred  ! 

Tresham.  Mertoun,  haste 

And  anger  have  undone  us.     'T  is  not  you 
Should  tell  me  for  a  novelty  you  're  young, 
Thoughtless,  unable  to  recall  the  past* 
Be  but  your  pardon  ample  as  my  own  ! 

Mertoun.  Ah !  Tresham,  that  a  sword-stroke  and  a  drop  130 
Of  blood  or  two  should  bring  all  this  about ! 
Why,  't  was  my  very  fear  of  you,  my  love 
Of  you — what  passion  like  a  boy's  for  one 
Like  you? — that  ruined  me  !     I  dreamed  of  you — 
You,  all  accomplished,  courted  everywhere, 
The  scholar  and  the  gentleman.     I  burned 


ACT  III.     SCENE  I. 


103 


To  knit  myself  to  you  ;  but  I  was  young, 

And  your  surpassing  reputation  kept  me 

So  far  aloof!     Oh  !  wherefore  all  that  love? 

With  less  of  love,  my  glorious  yesterday  14° 

Of  praise  and  gentlest  words  and  kindest  looks 

Had  taken  place  perchance  six  months  ago. 

Even  now,  how  happy  we  had  been  !     And  yet 

I  know  the  thought  of  this  escaped  you,  Tresham  ! 

Let  me  look  up  into  your  face ;  I  feel    " 

T  is  changed  above  me :  yet  my  eyes  are  glazed. 

Where?  where? 

[As  he  endeavors  to  raise  himself,  his  eye  catches  the  lamp. 
Ah,  Mildred  !     What  will  Mildred  do  ? 
Tresham,  her  life  is  bound  up  in  the  life 
That 's  bleeding  fast  away  !    I  '11  live — must  live — 
There,  if  you  '11  only  turn  me  I  shall  live  15° 

And  save  her !     Tresham — oh !  had  you  but  heard  ! 
Had  you  but  heard  !     What  right  was  yours  to  set 
The  thoughtless  foot  upon  her  life  and  mine, 
And  then  say,  as  we  perish,  •  Had  I  thought, 
All  had  gone  otherwise?'     We  've  sinned  and  die  : 
Never  you  sin,  Lord  Tresham  !  for  you  '11  die, 
And  God  will  judge  you. 

Tresham.  Yes,  be  satisfied ! 

That  process  is  begun. 

Mertoun.  And  she  sits  there 

Waiting  for  me !     Now,  say  you  this  to  her — 
You,  not  another — say,  I  saw  him  die  160 

As  he  breathed  this, '  I  love  her ' — you  don't  know 
What  those  three  small  words  mean  !     Say,  loving  her 
Lowers  me  down  the  bloody  slope  to  death 
With  memories — I  speak  to  her,  not  you, 
Who  had  no  pity,  will  have  no  remorse, 
IV  reliance  intend  her — Die  along  with  me, 
Dear  Mildred!  't  is  so  easy,  and  you  '11  'scape 


104 


A   BLOT  IX   THE  'SCUTCHEON.    / 


So  much  unkindness  !     Can  I  lie  al  rest, 

With  rude  speech  spoken  to  you,  ruder  deeds 

Done  to  you? — heartless  men  shall  have  my  heart,  170 

And  I  tied  down  with  grave-clothes  and  the  worm, 

Aware,  perhaps,  of  every  blow — O  God! — 

Upon  those  lips — yet  of  no  power  to  tear 

The  felon  stripe  by  stripe  !     Die,  Mildred !     Leave 

Their  honorable  world  to  them  !     For  God 

We  're  good  enough,"  though  the  world  casts  us  out. 

[A  whistle  is  heard. 
Tresham.  Ho,  Gerard! 

Enter  Gerard,  Austin,  and  Guendolen  with  lights. 

No  one  speak  !     You  see  what 's  done. 
I  cannot  bear  another  voice. 

Mertoun.  There  's  light — 

Light  all  about  me,  and  I  move  to  it. 

Tresham,  did  I  not  tell  you — did  you  not  180 

lust  promise  to  deliver  words  of  mine 
To  Mildred? 

Tresham.       I  will  bear  those  words  to  her. 

Mertoun.  Now? 

Tresham.  Now.     Lift  you  the  body,  and  leave  me 

The  head. 

[As  they  have  half  raised  Mertoun,  he  turns  suddenly. 

Mertoun.  I  knew  they  turned  me  :  turn  me  not  from  her ! 
There  !  stay  you  !  there  !  [Dies. 

Guendolen  [after  a pause\     Austin,  remain  you  here 
With  Thorold  until  Gerard  comes  with  help ; 
Then  lead  him  to  his  chamber.     I  must  go 
To  Mildred. 

Tresham.       Guendolen,  I  hear  each  word 
You  utter.     Did  you  hear  him  bid  me  give 
His  message  ?     Did  you  hear  my  promise  ?     I,  190 

And  only  I,  see  Mildred. 


ACT  III.    SCENE  I. 


i°5 


Guendolen.  She  will  die. 

Tresham.  Oh  !  no,  she  will  not  die  i  I  dare  not  hope 
She  '11  die.  What  ground  have  you  to  think  she  '11  die  ? 
Why,  Austin  's  with  you  ! 

Austin.  Had  we  but  arrived 

Before  you  fought ! 

Tresham.  There  was  no  fight  at  all. 

He  let  me  slaughter  him — the  boy  !     I  '11  trust 
The  body  there  to  you  and  Gerard — thus ! 
Now  bear  him  on  before  me. 

Austin.  Whither  bear  him  ? 

Tresham.  Oh !  to  my  chamber  !    When  we  meet  there  next, 

We  shall  be  friends.  [They  bear  out  the  body  of  Mertoun. 

Will  she  die,  Guendolen  ?  200 

Guendolen.  Where  are  you  taking  me? 

Tresham.  He  fell  just  here. 

Now  answer  me.     Shall  you  in  your  whole  life — 
You  who  have  nought  to  do  with  Mertoun's  fate, 
Now  you  have  seen  his  breast  upon  the  turf, 
Shall  you  e'er  walk  this  way  if  you  can  help? 
When  you  and  Austin  wander  arm-in-arm 
Through  our  ancestral  grounds,  will  not  a  shade 
Be  ever  on  the  meadow  and  the  waste — 
Another  kind  of  shade  than  when  the  night 
Shuts  the  woodside  with  all  its  whispers  up?  ar 

But  will  you  ever  so  forget  his  breast 
As  carelessly  to  cross  this  bloody  turf 
Under  the  black  yew  avenue?     That  's  well! 
You  turn  your  head  :  and  I  then  ? — 

Guendolen.  What  is  done 

Is  done.     My  care  is  for  the  living.     Thorold, 
Bear  up  against  this  burden  :  more  remains 
To  set  the  neck  to ! 

Tresham.  1  tear  and  ancient  trees 

My  fathers  planted,  and  I  loved  so  well! 


io6  A   BLOT  IN   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 

What  have  I  done  that,  like  some  fabled  crime 

Of  yore,  lets  loose  a  Fury  leading  thus 

Her  miserable  dance  amidst  you  all  ? 

Oh !  never  more  for  me  shall  winds  intone 

With  all  your  tops  a  vast  antiphony, 

Demanding  and  responding  in  God's  praise  1 

Hers  ye  are  now,  not  mine  !     Farewell — farewell ! 


Scene  II.     Mildred's  Chamber.     Mildred  alone. 
He  comes  not !     I  have  heard  of  those  who  seemed 
Resourceless  in  prosperity, — you  thought 
Sorrow  might  slay  them  when  she  listed ;  yet 
Did  they  so  gather  up  their  diffused  strength 
At  her  first  menace,  that  they  bade  her  strike, 
And  stood  and  laughed  her  subtlest  skill  to  scorn. 
Oh  !  't  is  not  so  with  me  !     The  first  woe  fell, 
And  the  rest  fall  upon  it,  not  on  me : 
Else  should  I  bear  that  Henry  comes  not? — fails 
Just  this  first  night  out  of  so  many  nights? 
Loving  is  done  with.     Were  he  sitting  now, 
As  so  few  hours  since,  on  that  seat,  we  'd  love 
No  more — contrive  no  thousand  happy  ways 
To  hide  love  from  the  loveless  any  more. 
I  think  I  might  have  urged  some  little  point 
In  my  defence  to  Thorold ;  he  was  breathless 
For  the  least  hint  of  a  defence :  but  no, 
The  first  shame  over,  all  that  would  might  fall. 
No  Henry  !     Yet  I  merely  sit  and  think 
The  morn's  deed  o'er  and  o'er.     I  must  have  crept 
Out  of  myself.     A  Mildred  that  has  lost 
Her  lover — oh !  I  dare  not  look  upon 
Such  woe!     I  crouch  away  from  it !     T  is  she, 
Mildred,  will  break  her  heart,  not  I !     The  world 
Forsakes  me  :  only  Henry  's  left  me— left  ? 


ACT  III.     SCENE  II.  107 

When  I  have  lost  him,  for  he  does  not  come, 
And  I  sit  stupidly —    O  Heaven,  break  up 
This  worse  than  anguish,  this  mad  apathy, 
By  any  means  or  any  messenger  ! 

Tresham  [without].  Mildred! 

Mildred.  Come  in  !     Heaven  hears  me  ! 

[Enter  Tresham.]  You  ?  alone  ? 

Oh  !  no  more  cursing  ! 

Tresham.  „  Mildred,  I  must  sit.  31 

There — you  sit ! 

Mildred.  Say  it,  Thorold — do  not  look 

The  Curse  !  deliver  all  you  come  to  say ! 
What  must  become  of  me?    Oh!  speak  that  thought 
Which  makes  your  brow  and  cheek  so  pale  ! 

Tresham.  My  thought  ? 

Mildred.  All  of  it ! 

Tresham.  How  we  waded — years  ago — 

After  those  water-lilies,  till  the  plash, 
I  know  not  how,  surprised  us ;  and  you  dared 
Neither  advance  nor  turn  back  :  so,  we  stood 
LaUghing  and  crying  until  Gerard  came —  4° 

Once  safe  upon  the  turf,  the  loudest  too, 
For  once  more  reaching  the  relinquished  prize ! 
How  idle  thoughts  are,  some  men's,  dying  men's ! 
Mildred, — 

Mildred.  You  call  me  kindlier  by  my  name 
Than  even  yesterday :  what  is  in  that  ? 

Tresham.  It  weighs  so  much  upon  my  mind  that  I 
This  morning  took  an  office  not  my  own  ! 
I  might — of  course,  I  must  be  glad  or  grieved, 
Content  or  not,  at  every  little  thing 

That  touches  you.     I  may  with  a  wrung  heart  v 

Even  reprove  you,  Mildred  ;  I  did  more  : 
Will  you  forgive  me? 


io8  A    BLOT  IX    THE   'SCUTCHEON. 

Mildred.  Thorold  ?  do  you  mock  ? 

Or  no — and  yet  you  bid  me — say  that  word ! 

Tresham.  Forgive  me,  Mildred! — are  you  silent,  sweet? 

Mildred  [starting  up\.      Why  does  not  Henry   Mertoun 
come  to-night? 
Are  you,  too,  silent? 

[Dashing  his  mantle  aside,  and  pointing  to  his  scabbard, 
which  is  empty. 

Ah  !  this  speaks  for  you  ! 
You  've  murdered  Henry  Mertoun  !     Now  proceed ! 
What  is  it  I  must  pardon  ?     This  and  all  ? 
Well,  I  do  pardon  you — I  think  I  do.  * 

Thorold,  how  very  wretched  you  must  be !  60 

Tresham.  He  bade  me  tell  you — 

Mildred.  What  I  do  forbid 

Your  utterance  of  i     So  much  that  you  may  tell 
And  will  not — how  you  murdered  him — but,  no ! 
You  '11  tell  me  that  he  loved  me,  never  more 
Than  bleeding  out  his  life  there  :  must  I  say 
'  Indeed,'  to  that?     Enough  !  I  pardon  you. 

Tresham.  You  cannot,   Mildred!    for   the   harsh   words, 
yes: 
Of  this  last  deed  Another  's  judge  ;  whose  doom 
I  wait  in  doubt,  despondency,  and  fear. 

Mildred.  Oh,  true !     There  's  nought  for  me  to  pardon ! 
True !  70 

You  loose  my  soul  of  all' its  cares  at  once. 
Death  makes  me  sure  of  him  forever !     You 
Tell  me  his  last  words  ?     He  shall  tell  me  them, 
And  take  my  answer — not  in  words,  but  reading 
Himself  the  heart  I  had  to  read  him  late, 
Which  death — 

Tresham.       Death?     You  are  dying  too?     Well  said 
Of  Guendolen  !     I  dared  not  hope  you  'd  die  : 
But  she  was  sure  of  it. 


ACT  III.    SCENE  II.  109 

Mildred.  Tell  Guendolen 

I  loved  her,  and  tell  Austin — 

Tresham.  Him  you  loved  : 

And  me? 

Mildred.  Ah,  Thorold !     Was  't  not  rashly  done  80 

To  quench  that  blood,  on  fire  with  youth  and  hope 
And  love  of  me — whom  you  loved  too,  and  yet 
Suffered  to  sit  here  waiting  his  approach 
While  you  were  slaying  him  ?     Oh!  doubtlessly 
You  let  him  speak  his  poor  confused  boy's-speech — 
Do  his  poor  utmost  to  disarm  your  wrath 
And  respite  me ! — you  let  him  try  to  give 
The  story  of  our  love  and  ignorance, 
And  the  brief  madness  and  the  long  despair — 
You  let  him  plead  all  this,  because  your  code  9° 

Of  honor  bids  you  hear  before  you  strike  3 
But  at  the  end,  as  he  looked  up  for  life 
Into  your  eyes — you  struck  him  down  1 

Tresham.  No !  no ! 

Had  I  but  heard  him — had  I  let  him  speak 
Half  the  truth — less — had  I  looked  long  on  him 
I  had  desisted !     Why,  as  he  lay  there, 
The  moon  on  his  flushed  cheek,  I  gathered  all 
The  story  ere  he  told  it ;  I  saw  through 
The  troubled  surface  of  his  crime  and  yours 
A  depth  of  purity  immovable.  100 

Had  I  but  glanced,  where  all  seemed  turbidest 
Had  gleamed  some  inlet  to  the  calm  beneath. 
I  would  not  glance  :  my  punishment  's  at  hand. 
There,  Mildred,  is  the  truth !  and  you— say  on — 
You  curse  me  ? 

Mildred.  As  I  dare  approach  that  Heaven 

Which  has  not  bade  a  living  thing  despair, 
Which  needs  no  code  to  keep  its  grace  from  stain, 
Rut  bids  the  vilest  worm  that  turns  on  it 


no  A    BLOT  J N   THE  'SCUTCHEON. 

Desist  and  be  forgiven, — I — forgive  not, 
But  bless  you,  Thorold,  from  my  soul  of  souls !  no 

[Falls  on  his  neck. 
There  !     Do  not  think  too  much  upon  the  past ! 
The  cloud  that 's  broke  was  all  the  same  a  cloud 
While  it  stood  up  between  my  friend  and  you ; 
You  hurt  him  'neath  its  shadow :  but  is  that 
So  past,retrieve  ?     I  have  his  heart,  you  know ; 
I  may  dispose  of  it :  I  give  it  you  ! 
It  loves  you  as  mine  loves  !     Confirm  me,  Henry \         [Dies. 

Tresham.  I  wish  thee  joy,  beloved  !  I  am  glad 
In  thy  full  gladness  ! 

Guendolen  [without].  Mildred  !  Tresham  ! 

[Entering  with  Austin]  Thorold, 

I  could  desist  no  longer.     Ah !  she  swoons !  "o 

That  's  well. 

Tresham.       Oh  !  better  far  than  that ! 

Guendolen.  She  's  dead  1 

Let  me  unlock  her  arms ! 

Tresham.  She  threw  them  thus 

About  my  neck,  and  blessed  me,  and  then  died  : 
You  '11  let  them  stay  now,  Guendolen ! 

Austin.  ,  Leave  her 

And  look  to  him  !     What  ails  you,  Thorold  ? 

Guendolen.  White 

As  she,  and  whiter !     Austin  !  quick — this  side  ! 

Austin.  A  froth  is  oozing  through  his  clenched  teeth  ; 
Both  lips,  where  they  're  not  bitten  through,  are  black  : 
Speak,  dearest  Thorold! 

Tresham.  Something  does  weigh  down 

My  neck  beside  her  weight :  thanks ;  I  should  fall  13° 

But  for  you,  Austin,  I  believe  ! — there,  there, 
T  will  pass  away  soon  ! — ah  ! — I  had  forgotten  : 
I  am  dying. 

Guendolen.    Thorold — Thorold — why  was  this? 


ACT  III.    SCENE  If.  in 

Tresham.  I  said,  just  as  I  drank  the  poison  off, 
The  earth  would  be  no  longer  earth  to  me, 
The  life  out  of  all  life  was  gone  from  me. 
There  are  blind  ways  provided,  the  foredone 
Heart-weary  player  in  this  pageant-world 
Drops  out  by,  letting  the  main  masque  defile 
By  the  conspicuous  portal :  I  am  through —  mo 

Just  through  ! 

Guendolen.      Don't  leave  him,  Austin  !     Death  is  close. 

Tresham.  Already  Mildred's  face  is  peacefuller.  ' 
I  see  you,  Austin — feel  you  :  here  's  my  hand, 
Put  yours  in  it — you,  Guendolen,  yours  too  ! 
You  're  lord  and  lady  now — you  're  Treshams  ;  name 
And  fame  are  yours  :  you  hold  our  'scutcheon  up. — 
Austin,  no  blot  on  it !     You  see  how  blood 
Must  wash  one  blot  away :  the  first  blot  came, 
And  the  first  blood  came.     To  the  vain  world's  eye 
All 's  gules  again  :  no  care  to  the  vain  world,  150 

From  whence  the  red  was  drawn  ! 

Austin.  No  blot  shall  come  ! 

Tresham.  I  said  that ;  yet  it  did  come.     Should  it  come, 
Vengeance  is  God's,  not  man's.     Remember  me  !          [Dies. 

Guendolen  [letting  fall  the  pulseless  arm].  Ah!  Thorold!  we 
can  but — remember  you  ! 


COLOMBE'S    BIRTHDAY. 

A  PLAY. 

'  Ivy  and  violet,  what  do  ye  here 
With  blossom  and  shoot  in  the  warm  spring-weather, 
Hiding  tht  arms  of  Monchenci  and  Vere  ?"—  Hanmkr. 


NO  ONE  LOVES  AND  HONORS   BARRY  CORNWALL  MORE  THAN   DOES 

ROBERT   BROWNING  ; 

WHO,  HAVING  NOTHING  BETTER  THAN  THIS  PLAY  TO 

GIVE   HIM   IN   PROOF  OF   IT, 

MUST  SAY   SO. 

London,  1844. 


'   Persons. 

Colombe  of  Ravestein,  Duchess  of  Juliers  and  Cleves. 

Sabyne,  Adolf,  her  Attendants. 

Guibert,  Gaucelme,  Maufroy,  Clugnet,  Courtiers. 

Valence,  Advocate  of  Cleves. 

Prince  Berthold,  Claimant  of  the  Duchy. 

Melchior,  his  Confidant. 

PLACE,  The  Palace  at  Juliers. 

Time,  16— 


COLOMBE'S    BIRTHDAY. 


ACT   I. 

Morning.   Scene. — A  Corridor  leading  to  the  Audience-chamber. 

Gaucelme,  Clugnet,  Maufroy,  and  other  Courtiers,  round 
Guibert,  who  is  silently  reading  a  paper :  as  he  drops  it  at 
the  end — 

Guibert.  That  this  should  be  her  birthday ;  and  the  day 
We  all  invested  her,  twelve  months  ago, 
As  the  late  Duke's  true  heiress  and  our  liege ; 
And  that  this  also  must  become  the  day — 
Oh  !  miserable  lady  1 

i  Courtier.  Ay,  indeed? 

2  Courtier.  Well,  Guibert? 

3  Courtier.  But  your  news,  my  friend,  your  news ! 
The  sooner,  friend,  one  learns  Prince  Berthold's  pleasure, 
The  better  for  us  all :  how  writes  the  Prince  ? 

Give  me !  I  '11  read  it  for  the  common  good. 

Guibert.  In  time,  sir, — but  till  time  comes,  pardon  me !    io 
Our  old  Duke  just  disclosed  his  child's  retreat, 
Declared  her  true  succession  to  his  rule, 
And  died  :  this  birthday  was  the  day,  last  year, 
We  convoyed  her  from  Castle  Ravestein — 
That  sleeps  out  trustfully  its  extreme  age 
On  the  Meuse'  quiet  bank,  where  she  lived  queen 
Over  the  water-buds — to  Juliers'  court 
With  joy  and  bustle.     Here  again  we  stand  ; 


Il6  COLOMBES  BIRTHDAY. 

Sir  Gaucelme's  buckle  's  constant  to  his  cap  : 

To-day  's  much  such  another  sunny  day  !  20 

Gaucelme.  Come,  Guibert,  this  outgrows  a  jest,  I  think  ! 
You  're  hardly  such  a  novice  as  to  need 
The  lesson  you  pretend. 

Guibert.  What  lesson,  sir? 

That  everybody,  if  he  'd  thrive  at  court, 
Should,  first  and  last  of  all,  look  to  himself? 
Why,  no :  and  therefore  with  your  good  example — 
Ho,  Master  Adolf !— to  myself  I  Ml  look. 

Enter  Adolf. 

Guibert.  The  Prince's  letter  ;  why,  of  all  men  else 
Comes  it  to  me? 

Adolf.  By  virtue  of  your  place, 

Sir  Guibert !     'T  was  the  Prince's  express  charge,  3° 

His  envoy  told  us,  that  the  missive  there 
Should  only  reach  our  lady  by  the  hand 
Of  whosoever  held  your  place. 

Guibert.  Enough !  {Adolf  retires. 

Then,  gentles,  who  '11  accept  a  certain  poor 
Indifferently  honorable  place, 

My  friends,  I  make  no  doubt,  have  gnashed  their  teeth 
At  leisure  minutes  these  half-dozen  years 
To  find  me  never  in  the  mood  to  quit  ? — 
Who  asks  may  have  it,  with  my  blessing,  and — 
This  to  present  our  lady.     Who  '11  accept?  40 

You — you — you  ?     There  it  lies,  and  may,  for  me  ! 

Maufroy  [a  youth,  picking  up  the  paper,  reads  aloud], 
'  Prince  Berthold,  proved  by  titles  following 
Undoubted  Lord  of  Juliers,  comes  this  day 
To  claim  his  own,  with  license  from  the  Pope, 
The  Emperor,  the  Kings  of  Spain  and  Fiance' — 

Gaucelme.  Sufficient  '  titles  following,'  I  judge  ! 
Don't  read  another  !     Well — 'to  claim  his  own  ?' 


ACT  I.  117 

Maufroy.  'And  take  possession  of  the  Duchy  held 
Since  twelve  months,  to  the  true  heir's  prejudice, 
By' — Colombe,  Juliers'  mistress,  so  she  thinks,  so 

And  Ravestein's  mere  lady,  as  we  find  ! 
Who  wants  the  place  and  paper?     Guibert  's  right. 
I  hope  to  climb  a  little  in  the  world — 
I  'd  push  my  fortunes — but,  no  more  than  he, 
Could  tell  her  on  this  happy  day  of  days 
That,  save  the  nosegay  in  her  hand,  perhaps, 
There  's  nothing  left  to  call  her  own. — Sir  Clugnet, 
You  famish  for  promotion  ;  what  say  you  ? 

Clugnet  [an  old  man].  To  give  this  letter  were  a  sort,  I 
take  it, 
Of  service  :  services  ask  recompense  :  60 

What  kind  of  corner  may  be  Ravestein? 

Guibert.  The  castle?  —  Oh!  you  'd  share  her  fortunes? 
Good ! 
Three  walls  stand  upright,  full  as  good  as  four, 
With  no  such  bad  remainder  of  a  roof. 

Clugnet.  Oh  ! — but  the  town  ? 

Guibert.  Five  houses,  fifteen  huts, 

A  church  whereto  was  once  a  spire,  't  is  judged  ; 
And  half  a  dyke,  except  in  time  of  thaw. 

Clugnet.  Still,  there  's  some  revenue  ? 

Guibert.  Else  Heaven  forefend  ! 

You  hang  a  beacon  out,  should  fogs  increase  ; 
So,  when  the  autumn  floats  of  pine-wood  steer  7° 

Safe  'mid  the  white  confusion,  thanks  to  you, 
Their  grateful  raftsman  flings  a  guilder  in  ; — 
That 's  if  he  mean  to  pass  your  way  next  time. 

Clugnet.  If  not  ? 

Guibert.  Hang  guilders,  then — he  blesses  you  ! 

Clugnet.  What  man  do  you  suppose  me  ?  Keep  your  paper  ! 
And,  let  me  say,  it  shows  no  handsome  spirit 
To  dally  with  misfortune  :  keep  your  place  ! 


1 1 8  COL  OMBhTS  BIK  Til  DA  Y. 

Gaucelme.  Some  one  must  tell  her. 

Guibert  Some  one  may  :  you  may  ! 

Gaucdme.   Sir  Guibert,  't  is  no  trifle  turns  me  sick 
Of  court-hypocrisy  at  years  like  mine,  80 

But  this  goes  near  it.     Where  's  there  news  at  all  ? 
Who  '11  have  the  face,  for  instance,  to  affirm 
He  never  heard,  e'en  while  we  crowned  the  girl, 
That  Juliers'  tenure  was  by  Salic  law  ; 
That  one,  confessed  her  father's  cousin's  child, 
And,  she  away,  indisputable  heir, 
Against  our  choice  protesting  and  the  Duke's, 
Claimed  Juliers? — nor,  as  he  preferred  his  claim, 
That  first  this,  then  another  potentate, 

Inclined  to  its  allowance? — I  or  you,  90 

Or  any  one  except  the  lady's  self? 
Oh !  it  had  been  the  direst  cruelty 
To  break  the  business  to  her!     Things  might  change  : 
At  all  events,  we  'd  see  next  masque  at  end, 
Next  mummery  over  first ;  and  so  the  edge 
Was  taken  off  sharp  tidings  as  they  came, 
Till  here  's  the  Prince  upon  us,  and  there  's  she — 
Wreathing  her  hair,  a  song  between  her  lips, 
With  just  the  faintest  notion  possible 

That  some  such  claimant  earns  a  livelihood  100 

About  the  world,  by  feigning  grievances 
Few  pay  the  story  of  but  grudge  its  price, 
And  fewer  listen  to  a  second  time. 
Your  method  proves  a  failure  ;  now  try  mine  ! 
And,  since  this  must  be  carried — 

Guibert  [snatching  the  paper  from  Aim].  By  your  leave  ! 
Your  zeal  transports  you  !     T  will  not  serve  the  Prince 
So  much  as  you  expect,  this  course  you  'd  take. 
If  she  leaves  quietly  her  palace — well ; 
But  if  she  died  upon  its  threshold — no: 
He  'd  have  the  trouble  of  removing  her.  no 


ACT  I. 


119 


Come,  gentles,  we  're  all — what  the  devil  knows  ! 

You,  Gaucelme,  won't  lose  character,  beside — 

You  broke  your  father's  heart  superiorly 

To  gather  his  succession — never  blush  ! 

You  're  from  my  province,  and,  be  comforted, 

They  tell  of  it  with  wonder  to  this  day. 

You  can  afford  to  let  your  talent  sleep. 

We  '11  take  the  very  worst  supposed,  as  true  : 

There,  the  old  Duke  knew,  when  he  hid  his  child 

Among  the  river-flowers  at  Ravestein,  no 

With  whom  the  right  lay  !     Call  the  Prince  our  Duke  ! 

There,  she  's  no  Duchess,  she  's  no  anything 

More  than  a  young  maid  with  the  bluest  eyes  : 

And  now,  sirs,  we  '11  not  break  this  young  maid's  heart 

Coolly  as  Gaucelme  could  and  would !     No  haste  ! 

His  talent 's  full-blown,  ours  but  in  the  bud  : 

We  '11  not  advance  to  his  perfection  yet — . 

Will  we,  Sir  Maufroy?     See,  I  've  ruined  Maufroy 

Forever  as  a  courtier  ! 

Gaucelme.  Here  's  a  coil ! 

And,  count  us,  will  you?     Count  its  residue,  13° 

This  boasted  convoy,  this  day  last  year's  crowd! 
A  birthday,  too,  a  gratulation-day  ! 
1  'm  dumb  :  bid  that  keep  silence  ! 

Maufroy  and  others.  Eh,  Sir  Guibert? 

He  's  right :  that  does  say  something ;  that 's  bare  truth. 
Ten — twelve,  I  make  ;  a  perilous  dropping  off"! 

Guibert.  Pooh — is  it  audience  hour  ?     The  vestibule 
Swarms  too,  I  wager,  with  the  common  sort 
That  want  our  privilege  of  entry  here. 

Gaucelme.   Adolf!     [Re-enter  Adolf.]     Who 's  outside  ? 

Guibert.  (  Hi !  your  looks  suffice  ! 

Nobody  waiting  ? 

Maufroy  [looking  through  the  doo>folk\    Scarce  our  mim 
ber! 


120  COLOMBE 'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Guibert.  'Sdeath ! 

Nothing  to  beg  for,  to  complain  about  ? 
It  can't  be !     Ill  news  spreads,  but  not  so  fast 
As  thus  to  frighten  all  the  world ! 

Gaucelme.  The  world 

Lives  out  of  doors,  sir — not  with  you  and  me 
By  presence-chamber  porches,  state-room  stairs, 
Wherever  warmth  's  perpetual ;  outside  's  free 
To  every  wind  from  every  compass-point, 
And  who  may  get  nipped  needs  be  weather-wise. 
The  Prince  comes  and  the  lady's  people  go ; 
The  snow-goose  settles  down,  the  swallows  flee — 
Why  should  they  wait  for  winter-time  ?     T  is  instinct : 
Don't  you  feel  somewhat  chilly? 

Guibert.  That 's  their  craft  ? 

And  last  year's  crowders-round  and  criers-forth 
That  strewed  the  garlands,  over-arched  the  roads, 
Lighted  the  bonfires,  sang  the  loyal  songs ! 
Well  't  is  my  comfort,  you  could  never  call  me 
The  People's  Friend !     The  people  keep  their  word — 
I  keep  my  place  :  don't  doubt  I  '11  entertain 
The  people  when  the  Prince  comes,  and  the  people 
Are  talked  of!     Then,  their  speeches — no  one  tongue 
Found  respite,  not  a  pen  had  holiday — 
For  they  wrote,  too,  as  well  as  spoke,  these  knaves ! 
Now  see  :  we  tax  and  tithe  them,  pill  and  poll, 
They  wince  and  fret  enough,  but  pay  they  must — 
We  manage  that — so,  pay  with  a  good  grace 
They  might  as  well,  it  costs  so  little  more. 
But  when  we  've  done  with  taxes,  meet  folk  next 
Outside.the  toll-booth  and  the  rating-place, 
In  public — there  they  have  us  if  they  will, 
We  're  at  their  mercy  after  that,  you  see  ! 
For  one  tax  not  ten  devils  could  extort — 
Over  and  above  necessity,  a  grace  ; 


ACT  I.  121 

This  prompt  disbosoming  of  love,  to  wit — 

Their  vine-leaf  wrappage  of  our  tribute-penny, 

And  crowning  attestation,  all  works  well 

Yet  this  precisely  do  they  thrust  on  us  \ 

These  cappings  quick,  these  crook-and-cringings  low, 

Hand  to  the  heart,  and  forehead  to  the  knee, 

With  grin  that  shuts  the  eyes  and  opes  the  mouth — 

So  tender  they  their  love  ;  and,  tender  made,  180 

Go  home  to  curse  us,  the  first  doit  we  ask. 

As  if  their  souls  were  any  longer  theirs ! 

As  if  they  had  not  given  ample  warrant 

To  who  should  clap  a  collar  on  their  neck, 

Rings  in  their  nose,  a  goad  to  either  flank, 

And  take  them  for  the  brute  they  boast  themselves ! — 

Stay — there  's  a  bustle  at  the  outer  door — 

And  somebody  entreating — that 's  my  name  ! 

Adolf — I  heard  my  name? 

Adolf.  'T  was  probably 

The  suitor. 

Guibert.      Oh !  there  is  one  ? 

Adolf.  With  a  suit  190 

He  'd  fain  enforce  in  person. 

Guibert.  The  good  heart — 

And  the  great  fool !     Just  ope  the  mid-door's  fold! 
Is  that  a  lappet  of  his  cloak  I  see  ? 

Adolf.  If  it  bear  plenteous  sign  of  travel — ay, 
The  very  cloak  my  comrades  tore ! 

Guibert.  Why  tore  ? 

Adolf.  He  seeks  the  Duchess'  presence  in  that  trim  : 
Since  daybreak,  was  he  posted  hereabouts 
Lest  he  should  miss  the  moment. 

Guibert.  Where 's  he  now? 

Adolf.  Gone  for  a  minute  possibly,  not  more  ; 
They  have  ado  enough  to  thrust  him  back.  *» 

Guibert.   Ay  — but  my  name  I  caught? 


I22  COLO  MB  PS  BIRTHDAY. 

Adolf.  O  sir — he  said—, 

What  was  it? — You  had  known  him  formerly, 
And,  he  believed,  would  help  him  did  you  guess 
He  waited  now  ;  you  promised  him  as  much  : 
The  old  plea  !     Faith,  he  's  back — renews  the  charge  ! — 
\Speaking  at  the  door~\   So  long  as  the  man  parleys,  peace 

outside — 
Nor  be  too  ready  with  your  halberts  there ! 

Gaucelme.  My  horse  bespattered,  as  he  blocked  the  path, 
A  thin  sour  man,  not  unlike  somebody. 

Adolf.   He  holds  a  paper  in  his  breast,  whereon  210 

He  glances  when  his  cheeks  flush  and  his  brow 
At  each  repulse — 

Gaucelme.  I  noticed  he  'd  a  brow. 

Adolf  So  glancing,,  he  grows  calmer,  leans  awhile 
Over  the  balustrade,  adjusts  his  dress, 
And  presently  turns  round,  quiet  again, 
With  some  new  pretext  for  admittance. — Back  ! — 
\To  Guibert\    Sir,  he  has  seen  you  ? — Now  cross  halberts ! 

Hal- 
Pascal  is  prostrate — there  lies  Fabian  too  ! 
No  passage!     Whither  would  the  madman  press? 
Close  the  doors  quick  on  me ! 

Guibert.  Too  late !     He  's  here.      220 

Enter,  hastily  and  with  discomposed  dress,  Valence. 
Valence.  Sir  Guibert,  will  you  help  me  ? — Me,  that  come 
Charged  by  your  townsmen,  all  who  starve  at  Cleves, 
To  represent  their  heights  and  depths  of  woe 
Before  our  Duchess  and  obtain  relief! 
Such  errands  barricade  such  doors,  it  seems  ; 
But  not  a  common  hindrance  drives  me  back 
On  all  the  sad  yet  hopeful  faces,  lit 
With  hope  for  the  first  time,  which  sent  me  forth. 
Cleves,  speak  for  me  !     Cleves'  men  and  women,  speak  ! 


ACT  I.  123 

Who  followed  me — your  strongest — many  a  mile  230 

That  I  might  go  the  fresher  from  their  ranks — 

Who  sit— your  weakest — by  the  city  gates, 

To  take  me  fuller  of  what  news  I  bring 

As  I  return— for  I  must  needs  return  ! — 

Can  I  ?     'T  were  hard,  no  listener  for  their  wrongs, 

To  turn  them  back  upon  the  old  despair — 

Harder,  Sir  Guibert,  than  imploring  thus — 

So,  I  do — any  way  you  please — implore  ! 

If  you — but  how  should  you  remember  Cleves  ? 

Yet  they  of  Cleves  remember  you  so  well ! —  24° 

Ay,  comment  on  each  trait  of  you  they  keep, 

Your  words  and  deeds  caught  up  at  second  hand — 

Proud,  I  believe,  at  bottom  of  their  hearts, 

O'  the  very  levity  and  recklessness 

Which  only  prove  that  you  forget  their  wrongs. 

Cleves,  the  grand  town,  whose  men  and  women  starve, 

Is  Cleves  forgotten  ? — Then,  remember  me  ! 

You  promised  me  that  you  would  help  me  once 

For  other  purpose  :  will  you  keep  your  word  ? 

Guibert.  And  who  may  you  be,  friend? 

Valence.  Valence  of  Cleves. 

Guibert.  Valence  of — not  the  advocate  of  Cleves,  251 

I  owed  my  whole  estate  to,  three  years  back  ? 
Ay,  well  may  you  keep  silence  !     Why,  my  lords, 
You  've  heard,  I  'm  sure,  how,  Pentecost  three  years, 
I  was  so  nearly  ousted  of  my  land 
By  some  knaves'-pretext — eh?  when  you  refused  me 
Your  ugly  daughter,  Clugnet ! — and  you  've  heard 
How  I  recovered  it  by  miracle — 
When  I  refused  her !     Here  's  the  very  friend — 
Valence  of  Cleves,  all  parties  have  to  thank  !  360 

Nay,  Valence,  this  procedure  's  vile  in  you  ! 
I  'm  no  more  grateful  than  a  courtier  should, 
But  politic  am  I — I  bear  a  brain, 


124 


colo  Arses  Bin  rim  a  y. 


Can  cast  about  a  little,  might  require 

Your  services  a  second  time.     1  tried 

To  tempt  you  with  advancement  here  to  court — 

'  No !' — well,  for  curiosity  at  least 

To  view  our  life  here — '  No !' — our  Duchess,  then — 

A  pretty  woman  's  worth  some  pains  to  see, 

Nor  is  she  spoiled,  I  take  it,  if  a  crown  «7° 

Complete  the  forehead  pale  and  tresses  pure — 

Valence.  Our  city  trusted  me  its  miseries, 
And  I  am  come. 

Guibert.  So  much  for  taste  !     But  '  come,' 

So  may  you  be,  for  anything  I  know, 
To  beg  the  Pope's  cross,  or  Sir  Clugnet's  daughter, 
And  wif h  an  equal  chance  you  get  all  three  1 
If  it  was  ever  worth  your  while  to  come, 
Was  not  the  proper  way  worth  finding  too? 

Valence.  Straight  to  the  palace-portal,  sir,  I  came — 

Guibert.  And  said? — 

Valence.  That  I  had  brought  the  miseries 

Of  a  whole  city  to  relieve. 

Guibert.  Which  saying  381 

Won  your  admittance?     You  saw  me,  indeed, 
And  here,  no  doubt,  you  stand  :  as  certainly, 
My  intervention,  I  shall  not  dispute, 
Procures  you  audience  ;  which,  if  I  procure — 
That  paper  's  closely  written — by  Saint  Paul, 
Here  flock  the  Wrongs,  follow  the  Remedies, 
Chapter  and  verse,  One,  Two,  A,  B,  and  C  ! 
Perhaps  you  'd  enter,  make  a  reverence, 
And  launch  these  '  miseries '  from  first  to  last  ?  890 

Valence.  How  should  they  let  me  pause  or  turn  aside  ? 

Gaucelme  [to  Valence].  My  worthy  sir,  one  question  !  You  've 
come  straight 
From  Cleves,  you  tell  us :  heard  you  any  talk 
At  Cleves  about  our  lady  ? 


ACT  I. 


125 


Valence.  Much. 

Gaucelme.  And  what? 

Valence.  Her  wish  was  to  redress  all  wrongs  she  knew. 

Gaucelme.  That  you  believed  ? 

Valence.  You  see  me,  sir ! 

Gaucelme.  Nor  stopped 

Upon  the  road  from  Cleves  to  Juliers  here, 
For  any — rumors  you  might  find  afloat? 

Valence.  I  had  my  townsmen's  wrongs  to  busy  me. 

Gaucelme.  This  is  the  lady's  birthday,  do  you  know? — 
Her  day  of  pleasure  ? 

Valence.  That  the  great,  I  know,  3°» 

For  pleasure  born,  should  still  be  on  the  watch 
To  exclude  pleasure  when  a  duty  offers  ; 
Even  as,  for  duty  born,  the  lowly,  too 
May  ever  snatch  a  pleasure  if  in  reach  : 
Both  will  have  plenty  of  their  birthright,  sir  ! 

Gaucelme  [aside  to  Guibert].  Sir  Guibert,  here  's  your  man ! 
No  scruples  now — 
You  '11  never  find  his  like  !     Time  presses  hard. 
I  've  seen  your  drift  and  Adolf's  too,  this  while, 
But  you  can't  keep  the  hour  of  audience  back  310 

Much  longer,  and  at  noon  the  Prince  arrives. 
[Pointing  to  Valence]    Intrust  him  with  it  —  fool  no  chance 
away ! 

Guibert.     Him? 

Gaucelme.  With  the  missive  !     What 's  the  man  to 

her? 

Guibert.  No  bad  thought ! — Yet,  't  is  yours,  who  ever  played 
The  tempting  serpent ;  else  't  were  no  bad  thought ! 
I  should— and  do — mistrust  it  for  your  sake, 
Or  else — 

Enter  an  Official  who  communicates  with  Adolf. 
Adolf.  The  Duchess  will  receive  the  court ! 


I26  COLOMBPS  BIRTHDAY. 

Guibert.  Give  us  a  moment,  Adolf!     Valence,  friend, 
I  '11  help  you  !     We  of  the  service,  you  're  to  mark, 
Have  special  entry,  while  the  herd — the  folks  3*> 

Outside — get  access  through  our  help  alone  j — 
Well,  it  is  so,  was  so,  and  I  suppose 
So  ever  will  be  :  your  natural  lot  is,  therefore, 
To  wait  your  turn  and  opportunity, 
And  probably  miss  both.     Now,  I  engage 
To  set  you,  here  and  in  a  minute's  space, 
Before  the  lady,  with  full  leave  to  plead 
Chapter  and  verse,  and  A,  and  B,  and  C, 
To  heart's  content. 

Valence.  I  grieve  that  I  must  ask — 

This  being,  yourself  admit,  the  custom  here —  330 

To  what  the  price  of  such  a  favor  mounts  ? 

Guibert.  Just  so !     You  're  not  without  a  courtier's  tact. 
Little  at  court,  as  your  quick  instinct  prompts, 
Do  such  as  we  without  a  recompense. 

Valence.  Yours  is  ? — 

Guibert.  A  trifle  :  here  's  a  document 

'T  is  some  one's  duty  to  present  her  Grace — 
I  say,  not  mine — these  say,  not  theirs — such  points 
Have  weight  at  court.     Will  you  relieve  us  all 
And  take  it?    Just  say,  '  I  am  bidden  lay 
This  paper  at  the  Duchess'  feet !' 

Valence.  No  more  ?  340 

I  thank  you,  sir ! 

Adolf.  Her  Grace  receives  the  court ! 

Guibert  [aside].  Now,  sursum  corda,  quoth  the  mass-priest ! 
Do— 
Whoever  's  my  kind  saint,  do  let  alone 
These  pushings  to  and  fro,  and  pullings  back ; 
Peaceably  let  me  hang  o'  the  devil's  arm 
The  downward  path,  if  you  can't  pluck  me  off 
Completely  !     Let  me  live  quite  his,  or  yours  ! 


ACT  I.  127 

[The  Courtiers  begin  to  range  themselves,  and  move  tow- 
ard the  door. 
After  me,  Valence  !     So,  our  famous  Cleves 
Lacks  bread  ?     Yet  don't  we  gallants  buy  their  lace  ? 
And  dear  enough — it  beggars  me,  I  know,  350 

To  keep  my  very  gloves  fringed  properly. 
This,  Valence,  is  our  Great  State  Hall  you  cross ; 
Yon  gray  urn's  veritable  marcasite, 
The  Pope's  gift :  and  those  salvers  testify 
The  Emperor.     Presently  you  '11  set  your  foot — 
But  you  don't  speak,  friend  Valence  ! 

Valence.  I  shall  speak. 

Gaucelme  [aside  to  Guibert].  Guibert — it  were  no  such  un- 
graceful thing 
If  you  and  I,  at  first,  seemed  horror-struck 
With  the  bad  news.     Look  here,  what  you  shall  do ! 
Suppose  you,  first,  clap  hand  to  sword  and  cry  360 

'  Yield  strangers  our  allegiance?     First  I  '11  perish 
Beside  your  Grace  ' — and  so  give  me  the  cue 
To— 

Guibert.  Clap  your  hand  to  note-book  and  jot  down 
That  to  regale  the  Prince  with  ?     I  conceive. — 
[To  Valence]   Do,  Valence,  speak,  or  I  shall  half  suspect 
You  're  plotting  to  supplant  us,  me  the  first, 
I'  the  lady's  favor !     Is  't  the  grand  harangue 
You  mean  to  make,  that  thus  engrosses  you? — 
Which  of  her  virtues  you  '11  apostrophize  ? 
Or  is  't  the  fashion  you  aspire  to  start,  370 

Of  that  close-curled,  not  unbecoming  hair? 
Or  what  else  ponder  you? 

Valence.  My  townsmen's  wrongs. 


128  COLOMHE'S  BIRTHDAY. 


ACT   II. 

Noon.     Scene. — The  Presence-chamber. 
The  Duchess  and  Sabyne. 

The  Duchess.  Announce  that  I  am  ready  for  the  court ! 

Sabyne.  'T  is  scarcely  audience-hour,  I  think  ;  your  Grace 
May  best  consult  your  own  relief,  no  doubt, 
And  shun  the  crowd  :  but  few  can  have  arrived. 

Ihe  Duchess.  Let  those  not  yet  arrived,  then,  keep  away ! 
'T  was  me,  this  day  last  year  at  Ravestein, 
You  hurried.     It  has  been  full  time,  beside, 
This  half-hour.     Do  you. hesitate? 

Sabyne.  Forgive  me ! 

The  Duchess.  Stay,  Sabyne  ;  let  me  hasten  to  make  sure 
Of  one  true  thanker :  here  with  you  begins  10 

My  audience,  claim  you  first  its  privilege  ! 
It  is  my  birth's  event  they  celebrate  : 
You  need  not  wish  me  more  such  happy  days, 
But — ask  some  favor !     Have  you  none  to  ask  ? 
Has  Adolf  none,  then  ?  this  was  far  from  least 
Of  much  I  waited  for  impatiently, 
.Assure  yourself!     It  seemed  so  natural 
Your  gift,  beside  this  bunch  of  river-bells, 
Should  be  the  power  and  leave  of  doing  good 
To  you,  and  greater  pleasure  to  myself.  *° 

You  ask  my  leave  to-day  to  marry  Adolf? 
The  rest  is  my  concern. 

Sabyne.  Your  grace  is  ever 

Our  lady  of  dear  Ravestein — but,  for  Adolf — 


ACT  II. 


120 


The  Duchess.     'But?'     You  have   not,  sure,  changed   in 
your  regard 
And  purpose  towards  him  ? 

Sabyne.  We  change  ? 

The  Duchess.  Well  then  ?     Well : 

Sabyne.   How  could  we  two  be  happy,  and,  most  like, 
L<eave  Juliers,  when — when — but  't  is  audience-time  ! 

The  Duchess.  '  When,  if  you  left  me,  I  were  left  indeed  P 
Would  you  subjoin  that  ? — Bid  the  court  approach  ! — 
Why  should  we  play  thus  with  each  other,  Sabyne  ?  3° 

Do  I  not  know,  if  courtiers  prove  remiss, 
If  friends  detain  me,  and  get  blame  for  it, 
There  is  a  cause  ?     Of  last  year's  fervid  throng 
Scarce  one  half  comes  now. 

Sabyne  [aside].  One  half?     No,  alas ! 

The  Duchess.  So  can  the  mere  suspicion  of  a  cloud 
Over  my  fortunes  strike  each  loyal  heart. 
They  've  heard  of  this  Prince  Berthold  ;  and,  forsooth, 
Some  foolish  arrogant  pretence  he  makes 
May  grow  more  foolish  and  more  arrogant, 
They  please  to  apprehend  !     I  thank  their  love.  4° 

Admit  them ! 

Sabyne  [aside].  How  much  has  she  really  learned  ? 

The  Duchess.   Surely,  whoever  's  absent,  Tristan  waits  ? — 
Or  at  least  Romuald,  whom  my  father  raised 
From  nothing — come,  he  's  faithful  to  me,  come  ! — 
Sabyne,  I  should  but  be  the  prouder — yes, 
The  fitter  to  comport  myself  aright — 
Not  Romuald  ?     Xavier — what  said  he  to  that  ? 
For  Xavier  hates  a  parasite,  I  know  ! —        [Sabyne  goes  out. 
Well,  sunshine  's  everywhere,  and  summer  too. 
Next  year  't  is  the  old  place  again,  perhaps —  50 

The  water-breeze  again,  the  birds  again. — 
It  cannot  be  !     It  is  too  late  to  be ! 
What  part  had  I.  or  choice  in  all  of  it  ? 
9 


13° 


COLO  MB  PS  BIRTHDAY. 


Hither  they  brought  me  ;  I  had  not  to  think 

Nor  care,  concern  myself  with  doing  good 

Or  ill,  my  task  was  just — to  live — to  live, 

And,  answering  ends  there  was  no  need  explain, 

To  render  Juliers  happy — so  they  said. 

All  could  not  have  been  falsehood  ;  some  was  love, 

And  wonder  and  obedience.     I  did  all  60 

They  looked  for:  why  then  cease  to  do  it  now? 

Yet  this  is  to  be  calmly  set  aside, 

And — ere  next  birthday's  dawn,  for  aught  I  know, 

Things  change,  a  claimant  may  arrive,  and  I — 

It  cannot  nor  it  shall  not  be  !     His  right  ? 

Well  then,  he  has  the  right,  and  I  have  not — 

But  who  bade  all  of  you  surround  my  life 

And  close  its  growth  up  with  your  ducal  crown 

Which,  plucked  off  rudely,  leaves  me  perishing  ? 

I  could  have  been  like  one  of  you — loved,  hoped,  70 

Feared,  lived,  and  died  like  one  of  you — but  you 

Would  take  that  life  away  and  give  me  this, 

And  I  will  keep  this  !     I  will  face  you  !     Come ! 

Enter  the  Courtiers  and  Valence. 
The  Courtiers.  Many  such  happy  mornings  to  your  Grace ! 
The  Duchess  [aside,  as  they  pay  their  devoir].   The  same 
words,  the  same  faces — the  same  love ! 
I  have  been  over-fearful.     These  are  few ; 
But  these,  at  least,  stand  firmly  ;  these  are  mine. 
As  many  come  as  may ;  and  if  no  more, 
'T  is  that  these  few  suffice — they  do  suffice  !  • 

What  succor  may  not  next  year  bring  me  ?     Plainly,  80 

I  feared  too  soon. — [To  the  Court]    I  thank  you,  sirs;   all 
thanks ! 
Valence  [aside,  as  the  Duchess  passes  from  one  group  to  an- 
other, conversing],  T  is  she — the  vision  this  day  last 
year  brought, 


ACT  II. 


131 


When,  for  a  golden  moment  at  our  Cleves, 
She  tarried  in  her  progress  hither.     Cleves 
Chose  me  to  speak  its  welcome,  and  I  spoke — 
Not  that  she  could  have  noted  the  recluse — 
Ungainly,  old  before  his  time — who  gazed. 
Well,  Heaven's  gifts  are  not  wasted,  and  that  gaze 
Kept,  and  shall  keep  me  to  the  end,  her  own  ! 
She  was  above  it — but  so  would  not  sink  90 

My  gaze  to  earth !     The  people  caught  it,  hers — 
Thenceforward,  mine  ;  but  thus  entirely  mine, 
Who  shall  affirm,  had  she  not  raised  my  soul 
Ere  she  retired  and  left  me — them  ?     She  turns — 
There's  all  her  wondrous  face  at  once !     The  ground 
Reels  and — [Suddenly  occupying  himself  with  his  paper ■.] 
These  wrongs  of  theirs  I  have  to  plead  ! 

The  Duchess  [to  the  Court].  Nay,  compliment  enough  !  and 
kindness'  self 
Should  pause  before  it  wish  me  more  such  years. 
'T  was  fortunate  that  thus,  ere  youth  escaped, 
I  tasted  life's  pure  pleasure — one  such,  pure,  100 

Is  worth  a  thousand,  mixed — and  youth  's  for  pleasure : 
Mine  is  received ;  let  my  age  pay  for  it. 

Gaucelme.    So   pay,  and   pleasure   paid   for,  thinks   your 
Grace, 
Should  never  go  together? 

Guibert.  How,  Sir  Gaucelme  ? 

Hurry  one's  feast  down  unenjoyingly 
At  the  snatched  breathing-intervals  of  work  ? 
As  good  you  saved  it  till  the  dull  day's-end 
When,  stiff  and  sleepy,  appetite  is  gone. 
Eat  first,  then  work  upon  the  strength  of  food ! 

The  Duchess.  True :  you  enable  me  to  risk  my  future,       no 
By  giving  me  a  past  beyond  recall. 
I  lived,  a  girl,  one  happy  leisure  year  : 
Let  me  endeavor  to  be  the  Duchess  now ! 


132 


COL  OMB KS  BIR  THDA  Y. 


And  so — what  news,  Sir  Guibert,  spoke  you  of? — 

[As  they  advance  a  little,  and  Guibert  speaks— 
That  gentleman  ? 

Valence  [aside].     I  feel  her  eyes  on  me. 

Guibert.  [to  Valence].    The  Duchess,  sir,  inclines  to  hear 
your  suit. 
Advance  ! — He  is  from  Cleves. 

Valence  [coming  forward]    [aside].    Their   wrongs — their 
wrongs !  • 

The  Duchess.  And  you,  sir,  are  from  Cleves  ?     How  fresh 
in  mind, 
The  hour  or  two  I  passed  at  queenly  Cleves ! 
She  entertained  me  bravely,  but  the  best  120 

Of  her  good  pageant  seemed  its  standers-by 
With  insuppressive  joy  on  every  face  ! 
What  says  my  ancient,  famous,  happy  Cleves  ? 

Valence.  Take  the  truth,  lady — you  are  made  for  truth ! 
So  think  my  friends ;  nor  do  they  less  deserve 
The  having  you  to  take  it,  you  shall  think, 
When  you  know  all — nay,  when  you  only  know 
How,  on  that  day  you  recollect  at  Cleves, 
When  the  poor  acquiescing  multitude 

Who  thrust  themselves  with  all  their  woes  apart  130 

Into  unnoticed  corners,  that  the  few 
Their  means  sufficed  to  muster  trappings  for 
Might  fill  the  foreground,  occupy  your  sight 
With  joyous  faces  fit  to  bear  away 
And  boast  of  as  a  sample  of  all  Cleves — 
How,  when  to  daylight  these  crept  out  once  more, 
Clutching,  unconscious,  each  his  empty  rags 
Whence  the  scant  coin,  which  had  not  half  bought  bread, 
That  morn  he  shook  forth,  counted  piece  by  piece, 
And,  well-advisedly,  on  perfumes  spent  them  m° 

To  Durn,  or  flowers  to  strew,  before  your  path  — 
How,  when  the  golden  flood  of  music  and  bliss 


ACT  II. 


133 


Ebbed,  as  their  moon  retreated,  and  again 

Left  the  sharp  black-point  rocks  of  misery  bare — 

Then  I,  their  friend  had  only  to  suggest 

'  Saw  she  the  horror  as  she  saw  the  pomp !' 

And  as  one  man  they  cried  '  He  speaks  the  truth  : 

•  Show  her  the  horror !     Take  from  our  own  mouths 

Our  wrongs  and  show  them,  she  will  see  them  too !' 

This  they  cried,  lady  !     I  have  brought  the  wrongs.  150 

The  Duchess.  Wrongs?      Cleves   has   wrongs  —  apparent 
now  and  thus? 
I  thank  you!     In  that  paper?     Give  it  me! 

Valence.  There,  Cleves  ! — In  this! — What  did  I  promise, 
Cleves  ? — 
Our  weavers,  clothiers,  spinners  are  reduced 
Since — Oh  !  I  crave  your  pardon  !     I  forget 
I  buy  the  privilege  of  this  approach, 
And  promptly  would  discharge  my  debt.     I  lay 
This  paper  humbly  at  the  Duchess'  feet. 

[Presenting  Guiberfs paper. 

Guibert.  Stay  !  for  the  present — 

The  Duchess.  Stay,  sir  ?  I  take  aught 

That  teaches  me  their  wrongs  with  greater  pride  160 

Than  this  your  ducal  circlet. — Thank  you,  sir  ! — 

[  The  Duchess  reads  hastily ;  then,  turning  to  the  Court- 
iers— 
What  have  I  done  to  you  ?     Your  deed  or  mine 
Was  it,  this  crowning  me?     I  gave  myself 
No  more  a  title  to  your  homage,  no, 
Than  church  flowers,  born  this  season,  wrote  the  words 
In  the  saint's-book  that  sanctified  them  first. 
For  such  a  flower,  you  plucked  me  ;  well,  you  erred — 
Well,  't  was  a  weed  ;  remove  the  eyesore  quick  ! 
But  should  you  not  remember  it  has  lain 
StPeped  in  the  candles'  glory,  palely  shrined,  170 

Nearer  God's  Mother  than  most  earthly  things? — 


*34 


COLOMHES  It  I  urn  DAY. 


That  if 't  be  faded  't  is  with  prayer's  sole  breath — 

That  the  one  day  it  boasted  was  God's  day  ? 

Still,  I  do  thank  you !     Had  you  used  respect, 

Here  might  I  dwindle  to  my  last  white  leaf, 

Here  lose  life's  latest  freshness,  which  even  yet 

May  yield  some  wandering  insect  rest  and  food  : 

So,  fling  me  forth,  and — all  is  best  for  all ! 

[After  a  pause]    Prince  Berthold,  who  art  Juliers'  Duke,  it 

seems — 
The  King's  choice,  and  the  Emperor's,  and  the  Pope's—  i& 
Be  mine,  too !     Take  this  people  !     Tell  not  me 
Of  rescripts,  precedents,  authorities — 
But  take  them,  from  a  heart  that  yearns  to  give  ! 
Find  out  their  love — I  could  not ;  find  their  fear— 
1  would  not;  find  their  like — I  never  shall, 
Among  the  flowers  !  [Taking  off  her  coronet. 

Colombe  of  Ravestein 
Thanks  God  she  is  no  longer  Duchess  here ! 

Valence  [advancing  to  Guioert].  Sir  Guibert,  knight,  they 

call  you — this  of  mine  . 
Is  the  first  step  I  ever  set  at  court. 

You  dared  make  me  your  instrument,  I  find  ;  19° 

For  that,  so  sure  as  you  and  I  are  men, 
We  reckon  to  the  utmost  presently : 
But  as  you  are  a  courtier  and  I  none, 
Your  knowledge  may  instruct  me.     I,  already, 
Have  too  far  outraged,  by  my  ignorance 
Of  courtier-ways,  this  lady,  to  proceed 
A  second  step  and  risk  addressing  her : — 
I  am  degraded — you  let  me  address ! 
Out  of  her  presence,  all  is  plain  enough 
What  I  shall  do — but  in  her  presence,  too,  ^» 

Surely  there's  something  proper  to  be  done. — 
[To  the  others]    You,  gentles,  tell  me  if  I  guess  aright — 
May  I  not  strike  this  man  to  earth  ? 


ACT  II. 


135 


The   Courtiers   [as    Guibert  springs  forward,    withholding 
him].  Let  go  !  — 

The  clothiers'  spokesman,  Guibert  ?     Grace  a  churl  ? 

The  Duchess  [to  Valence\     Oh  !  be  acquainted  with  your 
party,  sir ! 
He  's  of  the  oldest  lineage  Juliers  boasts  ; 
A  lion  crests  him  for  a  cognizance ; 
1  Scorning  to  waver  '—that 's  his  'scutcheon's  word  ; 
His  office  with  the  new  Duke — probably 
The  same  in  honor  as  with  me  ;  or  more,  aio 

By  so  much  as  this  gallant  turn  deserves. 
He  's  now,  I  dare  say,  of  a  thousand  times 
The  rank  and  influence  that  remain  with  her 
Whose  part  you  take  !     So,  lest  for  taking  it 
You  suffer — 

Valence.      I  may  strike  him  then  to  earth  ? 

Guibert  [falling  on  his  knee].  Great  and  dear  lady,  pardon 
me  !     Hear  once  ! 
Believe  me  and  be  merciful — be  just ! 
I  could  not  bring  myself  to  give  that  paper 
Without  a  keener  pang  than  I  dared  meet — 
And  so  felt  Clugnet  here,  and  Maufroy  here —  *» 

No  one  dared  meet  it.     Protestation  's  cheap — 
But,  if  to  die  for  you  did  any  good, 

[To  Gaucelme]  Would  not  I  die,  sir  ?     Say  your  worst  of  me  ! 
But  it  does  no  good,  that  's  the  mournful  truth. 
And  since  the  hint  of  a  resistance,  even, 
Would  just  precipitate,  on  you  the  first, 
A  speedier  ruin — I  shall  not  deny, 
Saving  myself  indubitable  pain, 
I  thought  to  give  you  pleasure — who  might  say? — 
By  showing  that  your  only  subject  found  a?o 

To  carry  the  sad  notice  was  the  man 
Precisely  ignorant  of  its  contents  ; 
A  nameless,  mere  provincial  advocate  ; 


1 36  COLOMBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

One  whom  't  was  like  you  never  saw  before, 
Never  would  see  again.     All  has  gone  wrong; 
But  I  meant  right,  God  knows,  and  you,  I  trust ! 

The  Duchess.  A  nameless  advocate,  this  gentleman? — 
I  pardon  you,  Sir  Guibert !  — 

Guibert  [rising,  to  Valence\  Sir,  and  you  ? — 

Valence.   Rejoice  that  you  are  lightened  of  a  load. 
Now,  you  have  only  me  to  reckon  with.  24° 

The  Duchess.  One  I  have  never  seen,  much  less  obliged  ? — 

Valence.   Dare  I  speak,  lady? 

The  Duchess.  Dare  you  4     Heard  you  not 

I  rule  no  longer? 

Valence.  Lady,  if  your  rule 

Were  based  alone  on  such  a  ground  as  these 

[Pointing  to  the  courtiers. 
Could  furnish  you — abjure  it !     They  have  hidden 
A  source  of  true  dominion  from  your  sight. 

The  Duchess.  You  hear  them — no  such  source  is  left — 

Valence.  ■  Hear  Cleves ! 

Whose  haggard  craftsmen  rose  to  starve  this  day, 
Starve  now,  and  will  lie  down  at  night  to  starve, 
Sure  of  a  like  to-morrow — but  as  sure  35° 

Of  a  most  unlike  morrow-after-that, 
Since  end  things  must,  end  howsoe'er  things  may. 
What  curbs  the  brute-force  instinct  in  its  hour? 
What  makes — instead  of  rising,  all  as  one, 
And  teaching  fingers,  so  expert  to  wield 
Their  tool,  the  broadsword's  play  or  carbine's  trick — 
What  makes  that  there  's  an  easier  help,  they  think, 
For  you,  whose  name  so  few  of  them  can  spell, 
Whose  face  scarce  one  in  every  hundred  saw — 
You  simply  have  to  understand  their  wrongs,  260 

And  wrongs  will  vanish— so,  still  trades  are  plied,  , 

And  swords  lie  rusting,  and  myself  stand  here? 
There  is  a  vision  in  the  heart  of  each 


ACT  II. 


137 


Of  justice,  mercy,  wisdom,  tenderness 

To  wrong  and  pain,  and  knowledge  of  its  cure  ; 

And  these  embodied  in  a  woman's  form 

That  best  transmits  them,  pure  as  first  received, 

From  God  above  her,  to  mankind  below. 

Will  you  derive  your  rule  from  such  a  ground, 

Or  rather  hold  it  by  the  suffrage,  say,  27° 

Of  this  man — this — and  this? 

The  Duchess  [after  a  pause].  You  come  from  Cleves. 
How  many  are  at  Cleves  of  such  a  mind  ! 

Valence  \Jrom  his  paper\  '  We,  all  the  manufacturers  of 
Cleves ' — 

The  Duchess.  Or  stay,  sir — lest  I  seem  too  covetous — 
Are  you  my  subject  ?  such  as  you  describe 
Am  I  to  you,  though  to  no  other  man  ? 

Valence  [from  his  paper].  i  Valence  ordained  your  Advo- 
cate at  Cleves' — 

The  Duchess  [replacing  the  coronet].  Then  I  remain  Cleves' 
Duchess  !     Take  you  note, 
While  Cleves  but  yields  one  subject  of  this  stamp, 
I  stand  her  lady  till  she  waves  me  off!  '   280 

For  her  sake,  all  the  Prince  claims  I  withhold  ; 
Laugh  at  each  menace ;  and,  his  power  defying, 
Return  his  missive  with  its  due  contempt ! 

[Casting  it  away. 

Guibert  [picking  it  up].  Which  to  the  Prince  I  will  deliver, 
lady — 
Note  it  clown,  Gaucelme — with  your  message  too  ! 

The  Duchess.   I  think  the  office  is  a  subject's,  sir ! — 
Either — how  style  you  him  ? — my  special  guarder 
The  Marshal's — for  who  knows  but  violence 
May  follow  the  delivery? — or,  perhnps. 

My  Chancellor's — for  law  may  be  to  urge  »<*> 

( )n  its  receipt ! — or,  even  my  Chamberlain's — 
For  I  may  violate  established  form  !-^ 


138  COLOMBETS  BIRTHDAY. 

[To  Valence]    Sir — for  the  half-hour  till  this  service  ends, 
Will  you  become  all  these  to  me? 

Valence  [falling  on  his  knee].  My  liege  ! 

The  Duchess.  Give  me  ! 
,  [The  Courtiers  present  their  badges  of  office. 

[Putting  them  by]  Whatever  was  their  virtue  once, 
They  need   new  consecration.     [Raising  Valence]  Are  you 

mine  ? — 
I  will  be  Duchess  yet !  [She  retires. 

The  Courtiers.  Our  Duchess  yet ! 

A  glorious  lady  !     Worthy  love  and  dread  ! 
I'll  stand  by  her — and  I,  whate'er  betide  ! 

Guibert  [to  Valence].    Well  done,  well  done,  sir !     I  care 
not  who  knows,  300 

You  have  done  nobly  and  I  envy  you — 
Tho'  I  am  but  unfairly  used,  I  think  ; 
For  when  one  gets  a  place  like  this  I  hold, 
One  gets  too  the  remark  that  its  mere  wages, 
The  pay  and  the  preferment,  make  our  prize. 
Talk  about  zeal  and  faith  apart  from  these, 
We  're  laughed  at — much  would  zeal  and  faith  subsist 
Without  these  also  !     Yet,  let  these  be  stopped, 
Our  wages  discontinue — then,  indeed, 

Our  zeal  and  faith — we  hear  on  every  side —  310 

Are  not  released  — having  been  pledged  away 
I  wonder  for  what  zeal  and  faith  in  turn  ? 
Hard  money  purchased  me  my  place  !     No,  no — 
I  'm  right,  sir — but  your  wrong  is  better  still, 
If  I  had  time  and  skill  to  argue  it. 
Therefore,  I  say,  I  '11  serve  you,  how  you  please — 
If  you  like — fight  you,  as  you  seem  to  wish — 
The  kinder  of  me  that,  in  sober  truth, 
I  never  dreamed  I  clid  you  any  harm  — 

Gaucelme.  Or,  kinder  still,  you  '11  introduce,  no  doubt,     320 
His  merits  to  the  Prince  who  's  just  at  hand, 


ACT  n. 


139 


And  let  no  hint  drop  he  's  made  Chancellor 

And  Chamberlain  and  Heaven  knows  what  beside ! 

Clugnet  [to  Valence].    You  stare,  young  sir,  and  threaten  ! 
Let  me  say, 
That  at  your  age,  when  first  I  came  to  court, 
1  was  not  much  above  a  gentleman  ; 
While  now — 

Valence.       You  are  Head-Lackey  ?     With  your  office 
I  have  not  yet  been  graced,  sir ! 

Other  Courtiers  [to  Clugnet].        Let  him  talk  ! 
Fidelity,  disinterestedness, 

Excuse  so  much  !     Men  claim  my  worship  ever  33° 

Who  stanchly  and  steadfastly — 

Enter  Adolf. 
Adolf.  The  Prince  arrives. 

Courtiers.  Ha?     How? 

Adolf.  He  leaves  his  guard  a  stage  behind 

At  Aix,  and  enters  almost  by  himself. 

1  Courtier.  The  Prince !     This  foolish  business  puts  all 

out. 

2  Courtier.  Let  Gaucelme  speak  first ! 

3  Courtier.  Better  I  began 
About  the  state  of  Juliers:  should  one  say 

All 's  prosperous  and  inviting  him  ? 

4  Courtier.  Or  rather, 
All 's  prostrate  and  imploring  him  ? 

5  Courtier.  That 's  best. 
Where  's  the  Cleves'  paper,  by  the  way  ? 

4  Courtier  [to  Valence],  Sir — sir — 

If  you  '11  but  lend  that  paper — trust  it  me,  34° 

I  11  warrant — 

5  Courtier.    Softly,  sir — the  Marshal's  duty  ! 
Clugnet.  Has  not  the  Chamberlain  a  hearing  first 

By  virtue  of  his  patent? 


,4o  COLOMB&S  birthday. 

Ganalmc.         Patents  ? — Duties  ? 
All  that,  my  masters,  must  begin  again  ! 
One  word  composes  the  whole  controversy  :  . 
We're  simply  now— the  Prince's! 

The  Others.  Ay — the  Prince's  ! 

Enter  Sabyne. 

Sabyne.  Adolf!     Bid — Oh!  no  time  for  ceremony  ! 
Where  's  whom  our  lady  calls  her  only  subject? 
She  needs  him.     Who  is  here  the  Duchess's? 

Valence  [starling  from  his  reverie].   Most  gratefully  I  fol- 
low to  her  feet.  35° 


ACT  III.  141 


ACT   III. 

Afternoon.     Scene. — The  Vestibule. 
Enter  Prince  Berthold  and  Melchior. 

Berthold.  A  thriving  little  burgh  this  Juliers  looks. 
[Hal/apart]  Keep  Juliers,  and  as  good  you  kept  Cologne : 
Better  try  Aix,  though  ! — 

Melchior.  Please  't  your  Highness  speak  ? 

Berthold  [as  before],  Aix,  Cologne,  Frankfort  —  Milan  — 
Rome ! — 

Melchior.  The  Grave. — 

More  weary  seems  your  Highness,  I  remark, 
Than  sundry  conquerors  whose  path  I  've  watched 
Through  fire  and  blood  to  any  prize  they  gain. 
I  could  well  wish  you,  for  your  proper  sake, 
Had  met  some  shade  of  opposition  here — 
Found  a  blunt  seneschal  refuse  unlock,  *° 

Or  a  scared  usher  lead  your  steps  astray. 
You  must  not  look  for  next  achievement's  palm 
So  easily  :  this  will  hurt  your  conquering. 

Berthold.  My  next  ?     Ay — as  you  say,  my  next  and  next ! 
Well,  I  am  tired,  that 's  truth,  and  moody  too, 
This  quiet  entrance-morning  :  listen  why  ! 
Our  little  burgh,  now,  Juliers — 't  is  indeed 
One  link,  however  insignificant, 
Of  the  great  chain  by  which  I  reach  my  hope — 
A  link  I  must  secure  ;  but  otherwise,  *> 

You  'd  wonder  I  esteem  it  worth  my  grasp. 
Just  see  what  life  is,  with  its  shifts  and  turns! 
It  happens  now — this  very  nook— to  be 


142 


CO  LOME  PS  BIRTHDAY. 


A  place  that  once — not  a  long  while  since,  neither — 

When  I  lived  an  ambiguous  hanger-on 

Of  foreign  courts,  and  bore  my  claims  about, 

Discarded  by  one  kinsman,  and  the  other 

A  poor  priest  merely — then,  I  say,  this  place 

Shone  my  ambition's  object ;  to  be  Duke — 

Seemed  then  what  to  be  Emperor  seems  now.  30 

My  rights  were  far  from  being  judged  as  plain 

In  those  days  as  of  late,  I  promise  you: 

And  't  was  my  day-dream,  Lady  Colombehere 

Might  e'en  compound  the  matter,  pity  me, 

Be  struck,  say,  with  my  chivalry  and  grace — 

I  was  a  boy ! — bestow  her  hand  at  length, 

And  make  me  Duke,  in  her  right  if  not  mine. 

Here  am  I,  Duke  confessed,  at  Juliers  now. 

Hearken:  if  ever  I  be  Emperor, 

Remind  me  what  I  felt  and  said  to-day !  40 

Melchior.  All  this  consoles  a  bookish  man  like  me. — 
And  so  will  weariness  cling  to  you.     Wrong, 
Wrong!     Had  you  sought  the  lady's  court  yourself — 
Faced  the  redoubtables  composing  it, 
Flattered  this,  threatened  that  man,  bribed  the  other — 
Pleaded  by  writ  and  word  and  deed  your  cause — 
Conquered  a  footing  inch  by  painful  inch — 
And,  after  long  years'  struggle,  pounced  at  last 
On  her  for  prize — the  right  life  had  been  lived, 
And  justice  done  to  divers  faculties  So 

Shut  in  that  brow.     Yourself  were  visible 
As  you  stood  victor,  then  ;  whom  now — your  pardon  ! 
I  am  forced  narrowly  to  search  and  see — 
So  are  you  hid  by  helps — this  Pope,  your  uncle — 
Your  cousin,  the  other  King  !     You  are  a  mind — 
They,  body :  too  much  of  mere  legs-and-arms 
Obstructs  the  mind  so !     Match  these  with  their  like: 
Match  mind  with  mind  ! 


ACT  III. 


1 43 


Berthold.  And  where  's  your  mind  to  match  ? 

They  show  me  legs-and-arms  to  cope  withal ! 
I  'd  subjugate  this  city — where  's  its  mind  ?  60 

[  The  Courtiers  enter  slowly. 

Melchior.  Got  out  of  sight  when  you  came  troops  and  all ! 
And  in  its  stead,  here  greets  you  flesh-and-blood — 
A  smug  ceconomy  of  both,  this  first ! — 

[As  Clugnet  bows  obsequiously. 
Well  done,  gout,  all  considered  ! — I  may  go  ? 

Berthold.  Help  me  receive  them  ! 

Melchior.  Oh  !  they  just  will  say 

What  yesterday  at  Aix  their  fellows  said — 
At  Treves,  the  day  before ! — Sir  Prince,  my  friend, 
Why  do  you  let  your  life  slip  thus  ? — Meantime, 
I  have  my  little  Juliers  to  achieve — 

The  understanding  this  tough  Platonist,  7° 

Vour  holy  uncle  disinterred,  Amelius — 
Lend  me  a  company  of  horse  and  foot, 
To  help  me  through  his  tractate — gain  my  Duchy ! 

Berthold.  And  Empire,  after  that  is  gained,  will  be — ? 

Melchior.   To  help  me   through    your   uncle's   comment, 
Prince !  [Goes. 

Berthold.  Ah  !    Well :  he  o'er-refines — the  scholar's  fault ! 
How  do  I  let  my  life  slip?     Say,  this  life, 
I  lead  now,  differs  from  the  common  life 
Of  other  men  in  mere  degree,  not  kind, 
Of  joys  and  griefs, — still  there  is  such  degree —  80 

Mere  largeness  in  a  life  is  something,  sure — 
Enough  to  care  about  and  struggle  for, 
In  this  world :  for  this  world,  the  size  of  things ; 
The  sort  of  things,  for  that  to  come,  no  doubt. 
A  great  is  better  than  a  little  aim  ; 
And  when  I  wooed  Priscilla's  rosy  mouth 
And  failed  so,  under  that  gray  convent  wall, 
Was  I  more  happy  than  I  should  be  now 


144 


COLOMBPS  BIRTHDAY. 


[By  this  time,  the  Courtiers  are  ranged  before  hin; 
If  failing  of  my  Empire  ?     Not  a  whit. — 
Here  comes  the  mind,  it  once  had  tasked  me  sore  <*- 

To  baffle,  but  for  my  advantages ! 
All  \s  best  as  't  is:  these  scholars  talk  and  talk. 

[Seats  himself. 

The  Courtiers.   Welcome   our   Prince  to  Juliers ! — to  his 
heritage  ! 
Our  dutifullest  service  proffer  we  ! 

Clugnet.  I,  please  your  Highness,  having  exercised 
The  function  of  Grand  Chamberlain  at  court, 
With  much  acceptance,  as  men  testify — 

Berthold.  I  cannot  greatly  thank  you,  gentlemen  ! 
The  Pope  declares  my  claim  to  the  Duchy  founded 
On  strictest  justice  ;  if  you  concede  it,  therefore,  "» 

I  do  not  wonder:  and  the  kings  my  friends 
Protesting  they  will  see  such  claim  enforced, 
You  easily  may  offer  to  assist  us. 
But  there  's  a  slight  discretionary  power 
To  serve  me  in  the  matter,  you  've  had  long,         » 
Though  late  you  use  it.     This  is  well  to  say — 
But  could  you  not  have  said  it  months  ago  ? 
I  'm  not  denied  my  own  Duke's  truncheon,  true — 
'T  is  flung  me — I  stoop  down,  and  from  the  ground 
Pick  it,  with  all  you  placid  standers-by —  no 

And  now  I  have  it,  gems  and  mire  at  once, 
Grace  go  with  it  to  my  soiled  hands,  you  say ! 

Guibert.  By  Paul,  the  advocate  our  doughty  friend 
Cuts  the  best  figure  ! 

Gaucelme.  If  our  ignorance 

May  have  offended,  sure  our  loyalty — 

Berthold.    Loyalty?     Yours?  —  Oh!  —  of  yourselves  you 
speak ! — 
I  mean  the  Duchess  all  this  time,  I  hope ! 
And  since  I  have  been  forced  repeat  my  claims 


ACT  III. 


»45 


As  if  they  never  had  been  made  before, 

As  I  began,  so  must  I  end,  it  seems.  i*> 

The  formal  answer  to  the  grave  demand  ! 

What  says  the  lady  ? 

Courtiers  [one  to  another],   i  Courtier.  Marshal ! 

2  Courtier.  Orator ! 

Guibert.  A  variation  of  our  mistress'  way  ! 
Wipe  off  his  boots'  dust,  Clugnet ! — that  he  waits ! 

i  Courtier.  Your  phice  ! 

2  Courtier.  Just  now  it  was  your  own  ! 

Guibert.  The  devil's ! 

Berthold  [to  Guibert].    Come  forward,  friend  —  you  with 
the  paper,  there ! 
Is  Juliers  the  first  city  I  've  obtained? 
By  this  time,  I  may  boast  proficiency 

In  each  decorum  of  the  circumstance.  130 

Give  it  me  as  she  gave  it — the  petition  ! 
Demand,  you  style  it — What 's  required,  in  brief? 
What  title's  reservation,  appanage's 
Allowance? — I  heard  all  at  Treves,  last  week. 

Gaucelme  [to  Guibert].   '  Give  it  him  as  she  gave  it !' 

Guibert.       1  And  why  not  ? 

[To  Berthold]  The  lady  crushed  your  summons  thus  together, 
And  bade  me,  with  the  very  greatest  scorn 
So  fair  a  frame  could  hold,  inform  you — 

Courtiers.  Stop — 

Idiot!  — 

Guibert.  Inform  you  she  denied  your  claim, 
Defied  yourself! — I  tread  upon  his  Jieel,  140 

The  blustering  advocate ! 

Berthold.  By  heaven  and  earth  ! 

Dare  you  jest,  sir  ?  , 

Guibert.  Did  they  at  Treves,  last  week  ? 

Berthold  [starting  up].  Why  then,  I  look  much  bolder  than 
I  knew, 
10 


I46  COLO  MB  PS  BIRTHDAY. 

And  you  prove  better  actors  than  I  thought — 

Since,  as  I  live,  I  took  you  as  you  entered 

For  just  so  many  dearest  friends  of  mine, 

Fled  from  the  sinking  to  the  rising  power — 

The  sneaking'st  crew,  in  short,  I  e'er  despised ! 

Whereas,  I  am  alone  here  for  the  moment, 

With  every  soldier  left  behind  at  Aix !  is© 

Silence  ?     That  means  the  worst  ?     I  thought  as  much ! 

What  follows  next  then  ? 

Courtiers.  Gracious  Prince — he  raves  ! 

Guibert.  He  asked  the  truth,  and  why  not  get  the  truth  ? 

Berthold.  Am  I  a  prisoner?     Speak,  will  somebody? — 
But  why  stand  paltering  with  imbeciles? 
Let  me  see  her,  or — 

Guibert.  Her,  without  her  leave, 

Shall  no  one  see :  she  's  Duchess  yet ! 

Courtiers  {footsteps  without,  as  they  are  disputing].  Good 
chance ! 
She  's  here — the  Lady  Colombe's  self! 

Berthold.  T  is  well ! 

•  [Aside]    Array  a  handful  thus  against  my  world  ? 
Not  ill  done  truly!     Were  not  this  a  mind  160 

To  match  one's  mind  with  ?  Colombe  ! — Let  us  wait ! 
I  failed  so,  under  that  gray  convent  wall ! 
She  comes. 

Guibert.      The  Duchess !     Strangers,  range  yourselves. 
[As  the  Duchess  enters  in  conversation  with    Valence, 
Berthold  and  the  Courtiers  fall  back  a  little. 

The  Duchess.  PresagefuJly  it  beats,  presagefully, 
My  heart :  the  right  is  Berthold's  and  not  mine. 

Valence.  Grant  that  he  has  the  right,  dare  I  mistrust 
Your  power  to  acquiesce  so  patiently 
As  you  believe,  in  such  a  dream-like  change 
Of  fortune — change  abrupt,  profound,  complete? 

'Ihe  Duchess.  Ah  !  the  first  bitterness  is  over  now !  170 


ACT  lit.  147 

Bitter  I  may  have  felt  it  to  confront 
The  truth,  and  ascertain  those  natures'  value 
I  had  so  counted  on  ;  that  was  a  pang: 
But  I  did  bear  it,  and  the  worst  is  over. 
Let  the  Prince  take  them  ! — 

Valence.  And  take  Juliers  too? — 

Your  people  without  crosses,  wands,  and  chains — 
Only  with  hearts? 

The  Duchess.  There  I  feel  guilty,  sir ! 

I  cannot  give  up  what  I  never  had  ; 
For  I  ruled  these,  not  them — these  stood  between. 
Shall  I  confess,  sir?  I  have  heard  by  stealth  180 

Of  Berthold  from  the  first;  more  news  and  more: 
Closer  and  closer  swam  the  thunder-cloud, 
But  I  was  safely  housed  with  these,  I  knew. 
At  times  when  to  the  casement  I  would  turn, 
At  a  bird's  passage  or  a  flower-trail's  play, 
I^caught  the  storm's  red  glimpses  on  its  edge — 
Yet  I  was  sure  some  one  of  all  these  friends 
Would  interpose :   I  followed  the  bird's  flight 
Or  plucked  the  flower — some  one  would  interpose ! 

Valence.  Not  one  thought  on  the  people — and  Cleves  there ! 

The  Duchess.    Now,  sadly  conscious  my  real  sway  was 
missed,  191 

Its  shadow  goes  without  so  much  regret ; 
Else  could  I  not  again  thus  calmly  bid  you 
Answer  Prince  Berthold ! 

Valence.  Then  you  acquiesce  ? 

The  Duchess.  Remember  over  whom  it  was  I  ruled ! 

Guibert  [stepping forward\.  Prince  Berthold,  yonder,  craves 
an  audience,  lady! 

The  Duchess  [to  Valence].  I  only  have  to  turn,  and  I  shall 
face 
Prince  Berthold !     Oh  !  my  very  heart  is  sick ! 
It  is  the  daughter  of  a  line  of  Dukes 


148  COLOMBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

This  scornful,  insolent  adventurer 

Will  bid  depart  from  my  dead  father's  halls ! 

I  shall  not  answer  him — dispute  with  him — 

But,  as  he  bids,  depart !     Prevent  it,  sir ! 

Sir — but  a  mere  day's  respite  !     Urge  for  me — 

What  I  shall  call  to  mind  I  should  have  urged 

When  time  's  gone  by — 't  will  all  be  mine  you  urge! 

A  day — an  hour — that  I  myself  may  lay 

My  rule  down  !     T  is  too  sudden — must  not  be  ! 

The  world  's  to  hear  of  it !     Once  done — forever ! 

How  will  it  read,  sir?     How  be  sung  about?  i 

Prevent  it! 

Berthold  [approaching].  Your  frank  indignation,  lady, 
Cannot  escape  me.     Overbold  I  seem  ; 
But  somewhat  should  be  pardoned  my  surprise 
At  this  reception — this  defiance,  rather. 
And  if,  for  their  and  your  sake,  I  rejoice 
Your  virtues  could  inspire  a  trusty  few 
To  make  such  gallant  stand  in  your  behalf, 
I  cannot  but  be  sorry,  for  my  own, 
Your  friends  should  force  me  to  retrace  my  steps : 
Since  I  no  longer  am  permitted  speak  : 

After  the  pleasant  peaceful  course  prescribed 
No  less  by  courtesy  than  relationship — 
Which  I  remember,  if  you  once  forgot. 
But  never  must  attack  pass  unrepelled. 
Suffer  that  through  you  I  demand  of  these, 
Who  controverts  my  claim  to  Juliers? — 

The  Duchess.  Me, 

You  say,  you  do  not  speak  to— 

Berthold  Of  your  subjects 

I  ask,  then  :  whom  do  you  accredit  ?     Where 
Stand  those  should  answer! 

Valence  [advancing].  The  lady  is  alone  ! 

Berthold.  Alone,  and  thus  ?     So  weak  and  yet  so  bold  ? 


ACT  II r. 


149 


Valence.  I  said  she  was  alone — 

Berthold.  And  weak,  I  said.  23' 

Valence.  When  is  man  strong  until  he  feels  alone? 
It  was  some  lonely  strength  at  first,  be  sure, 
Created  organs,  such  as  those  you  seek,. 
By  which  to  give  its  varied  purpose  shape — 
And,  naming  the  selected  ministrants, 
look  sword,  and  shield,  and  sceptre — each,  a  man  ! 
That  strength  performed  its  work  and  passed  its  way : 
You  see  our  lady  :  there  the  old  shapes  stand ! — 
A  Marshal,  Chamberlain,  and  Chancellor —  no 

'  Be  helped  their'way,  into  their  death  put  life 
And  find  advantage  !' — so  you  counsel  us. 
But  let  strength  feel  alone,  seek  help  itself — 
And,  as  the  inland-hatched  sea-creature  hunts 
The  sea's  breast  out — as,  littered  'mid  the  waves, 
The  desert-brute  makes  for  the  desert's  joy, 
So  turns  our  lady  to  her  true  resource, 
Passing  o'er  hollow  fictions,  worn-out  types — 
And  I  am  first  her  instinct  fastens  on. 

And  prompt  I  say,  as  clear  as  heart  can  speak,  250 

The  people  will  not  have  you  ;  nor  shall  have ! 
It  is  not  merely  I  shall  go  bring  Cleves 
And  fight  you  to  the  last — though  that  does  much, 
And  men  and  children — ay,  and  women  too, 
Fighting  for  home,  are  rather  to  be  feared 
Than  mercenaries  fighting  for  their  pay — 
But,  say  you  beat  us,  since  such  things  have  been, 
And,  where  this  Juliers  laughed,  you  set  your  foot 
Upon  a  steaming  bloody  plash — what  then? 
Stand  you  the  more  our  lord  that  there  you  stand  ?  *&> 

Lord  it  o'er  troops  whose  force  you  concentrate, 
A  pillared  flame  whereto  all  ardors  tend — 
Lord  it  'mid  priests  whose  schemes  you  amplify, 
A  cloud  of  smoke  'neath  which  all  shadows  brood — 


IS© 


CULOATBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 


Rut  never,  in  this  gentle  spot  of  earth, 

Can  you  become  our  Colombe,  our  play-queen, 

For  whom,  to  furnish  lilies  for  her  hair, 

We'd  pour  our  veins  forth  to  enrich  the  soil! — 

Our  conqueror?    Yes! — Our  despot?    Yes! — Our  Duke  ! 

Know  yourself,  know  us  ! 

Berthold  [who  has  been  in  thought}.  Know  your  lady,  also  ! 

[  Very  deferentially}   To  whom  I  needs  must  exculpate  my- 
self 371 

For  having  made  a  rash  demand,  at  least. 

Wherefore  to  you,  sir,  who  appear  to  be 

Her  chief  adviser,  I  submit  my  claims,  [Giving papers. 

Rut,  this  step  taken,  take  no  further  step, 

Until  the  Duchess  shall  pronounce  their  worth. 

Here  be  our  meeting-place,  at  night  its  time ;  • 

Till  when  I  humbly  take  the  lady's  leave ! 

[He  withdraws.     As  the  Duchess  turns  to  Valence,  the 
Courtiers  interchange  glances  and  come  forward  a  little. 

1  Courtier.  So,  this  was  their  device  ! 

2  Courtier.  No  bad  device  !  280 

3  Courtier.    You  'd  say  they  love  each  other,  Guibert's 

friend 
From  Cleves,  and  she  the  Duchess ! — 

4  Courtier.  And  moreover, 
That  all  Prince  Rerthold  comes  for,  is  to  help 
Their  loves! 

5  Courtier.  Pray,  Guibert,  what  is  next  to  do  ? 

Guibert  [advancing],  I  laid  my  office  at  the  Duchess'  foot — 

Others.  And  I — and  I — and  1 ! 

The  Duchess.  I  took  them,  sirs. 

Guibert  [apart  to  Valence].  And  now,  sir,  I  am  simple  knight 
again — 
Guibert,  of  the  great  ancient  house,  as  yet 
That  never  bore  affront;  whate'er  your  birth, — 
As  things  stand  now,  I  recognize  yourself —  29° 


ACT  III. 


151 


If  you  '11  accept  experience  of  some  date — 
As  like  to  be  the  leading  man  o'  the  time, 
Therefore  as  much  above  me  now,  as  I 
Seemed  above  you  this  morning.     Then  I  offered 
To  fight  you  :  will  you  be  as  generous 
And  now  fight  me  ? 

Valence.  Ask  when  my  life  is  mine  1 

Guibert.  T  is  hers  now  ! 

Clugnet  [apart  to  Valence,  as  Guibert  turns  from  him].  You, 
sir,  have  insulted  me 
Grossly — will  grant  me,  too,  the  selfsame  favor 
You  Ve  granted  him  just  now,  I  make  no  question? 

Valence.  I  promise  you,  as  him,  sir. 

Clugnet.  Do  you  so  ?  3°° 

Handsomely  said !     I  hold  you  to  it,  sir. 
You  '11  get  me  reinstated  in  my  office 
As  you  will  Guibert ! 

The  Duchess.  I  would  be  alone  ! 

[They  begin  to  retire  slowly  ;  as  Valence  is  about  to  fol- 
low— 
Alone,  sir — only  with  my  heart :  you  stay  ! 

Gaucelme.  You  hear  that?     Ah!   light  breaks  upon  mel 
Cleves — 
It  was  at  Cleves  some  man  harangued  us  all — 
With  great  effect — so  those  who  listened  said, 
My  thoughts  being  busy  elsewhere :  was  this  he, 
Guibert? — your  strange,  disinterested  manl 
Your  uncorrupted,  if  uncourtly  friend !  31° 

The  modest  worth  you  mean  to  patronize ! 
He  cares  about  no  Duchesses,  not  he — 
His  sole  concern  is  with  the  wrongs  of  Cleves! 
What,  Guibert  ?     What,  it  breaks  on  you  at  last  ? 

Guibert.  Would  t his.  hall's  floor  were  a  mine's  roof! — I  'd 
back 
And  in  her  very  face — » 


*52 


COLOMBES  BIRTHDAY. 


Gaucelme.  Apply  the  match 

That  fired  the  train — and  where  would  you  be,  pray? 

Guibert.  With  him  ! 

Gaucelme.  Stand,  rather,  safe  outside  with  me ! 

The  mine  's  charged — shall  I  furnish  you  the  match 
And  place  you  properly  ? — To  the  antechamber !  320 

Guibert.  Can  you  ? 

Gaucelme.  Try  me  ! — Your  friend  's  in  fortune  ! 

Guibert.  Quick — 

To  the  antechamber! — He  is  pale  with  bliss! 

Gaucelme.  No  wonder !     Mark  her  eyes  ! 

Guibert.  To  the  antechamber! 

[The  Courtiers  retire. 

The  Duchess.  Sir,  could  you  know  all  you  have  done  for  me 
You  were  content !     You  spoke,  and  I  am  saved  ! 

Valence.  Be  not  too  sanguine,  lady  !     Ere  you  dream, 
That  transient  flush  of  generosity 
Fades  off,  perchance  !     The  man,  beside,  is  gone — 
Him  we  might  bend;  but  see,  the  papers  here — 
Inalterably  his  requirement  stays,  33° 

And  cold,  hard  words  have  we  to  deal  with  now. 
In  that  large  eye  there  seemed  a  latent  pride, 
To  self-denial  not  incompetent, 
But  very  like  to  hold  itself  dispensed 
From  such  a  grace  :  however,  let  us  hope  ! 
He  is  a  noble  spirit  in  noble  form. 
I  wish  he  less  had  bent  that  brow  to  smile 
As  with  the  fancy  how  he  could  subject 
Himself  upon  occasion  to — himself! 

From  rudeness,  violence,  you  rest  secure  ;  340 

But  do  not  think  your  Duchy  rescued  yet ! 

The  Duchess.  You — who  have  opened  a  new  world  to  me, 
Will  never  take  the  faded  language  up 
Of  that  I  leave  ?     My  Duchy — keeping  it, 
Or  losing  it — is  that  my  sole  world  now? 


ACT  II r. 


153 


Valence.  Ill  have  I  spoken  if  you  thence  despise 
Juliers  ;  although  the  lowest,  on  true  grounds, 
Be  worth  more  than  the  highest  rule  on  false  : 
Aspire  to  rule  on  the  true  grounds ! 

The  Duchess.  Nay,  hear — 

False  I  will  never — rash  I  would  not  be  !  350 

This  is  indeed  my  birthday — soul  and  body, 
Its  hours  have  done  on  me  the  work  of  years. 
You  hold  the  requisition  :  ponder  it ! 
If  I  have  right,  my  duty  's  plain  :  if  he — 
Say  so,  nor  ever  change  a  tone  of  voice  ! 
At  night  you  meet  the  Prince  \  meet  me  at  eve! 
Till  when,  farewell !     This  discomposes  you? 
Believe  in  your  own  nature,  and  its  force 
Of  renovating  mine!     I  take  my  stand 
Only  as  under  me  the  earth  is  firm  :  360 

So,  prove  the  first  step  stable,  all  will  prove. 
That  first  I  choose — [laying  her  hand  on  /its']  the  next  to 
take,  choose  you  !        -  [She  withdraws. 

Valence  [after  a  pause].  What  drew  down  this  on  me  ? — on 
me,  dead  once, 
She  thus  bids  live — since  all  I  hitherto 
Thought  dead  in  me,  youth's  ardors  and  emprise, 
Burst  into  life  before  her,  as  she  bids 
Who  needs  them.     Whither  will  this  reach,  where  end? 
Her  hand's  print  burns  on  mine — Yet  she  's  above — 
So  very  far  above  me  !     All 's  too  plain  : 
I  saved  her  when  the  others  sank  away,  370 

And  she  rewards  me  as  such  souls  reward — 
The  changed  voice,  the  suffusion  of  the  cheek, 
The  eye's  acceptance,  the  expressive  hand — 
Reward,  that  's  little,  in  her  generous  thought, 
Though  all  to  me —  * 

I  cannot  so  disclaim 
Heaven's  gift,  nor  call  it  other  than  it  is  ! 


,S4  COLOMBES  BIKTHDAY. 

She  loves  me ! — 

[Looking  at  the  Princes  papers}   Which   love    these   per- 
chance forbid. 
Can  I  decide  against  myself — pronounce 
She  is  the  Duchess  and  no  mate  for  me  ? — 
Cleves,  help  me  !    Teach  me — every  haggard  face —         380 
To  sorrow  and  endure  !     I  will  do  right 
Whatever  be  the  issue.     Help  me,  Cleves  1 


ACT  IV. 


*55 


ACT  IV. 

Evening.     Scene. — An  Antechamber. 
Enter  the  Courtiers. 

Maufroy.  Now,  then,  that  we  may  speak — how  spring  this 
mine  ? 

Gaucelme.  Is  Guibert  ready  for  its  match  ?     He  cools ! 
Not  so  friend  Valence  with  the  Duchess  there ! 
1  Stay,  Valence  !     Are  not  you  my  better  self?' 
And  her  cheek  mantled — 

Guibert.  Well,  she  loves  him,  sir : 

And  more — since  you  will  have  it  I  grow  cool — 
She  's  right:  he  's  worth  it. 

Gaucelme.  For  his  deeds  to-day  ? 

Say  so ! 

Guibert.  What  should  I  say  beside  ? 

Gaucelme.  '  Not  this — 

For  friendship's  sake  leave  this  for  me  to  say — 
That  we  're  the  dupes  of  an  egregious  cheat !  » 

This  plain  unpractised  suitor,  who  found  way 
To  the  Duchess  through  the  merest  die's  turn-up, 
A  year  ago  had  seen  her  and  been  seen, 
Loved  and  been  loved. 

Guibert.  Impossible ! 

Gaucelme.  Nor  say — 

How  sly  and  exquisite  a  trick,  moreover, 
Was  this  which — taking  not  their  stand  on  facts 
Boldly,  for  that  had  been  endurable, 
But  worming  on  their  way  by  craft,  they  choose 
Resort  to,  rather — and  which  you  and  we, 


I56  COLO  M  BBS  BIRTHDAY. 

Sheep-like,  assist  them  in  the  playing  off!  M 

The  Duchess  thus  parades  him  as  preferred, 
Not  on  the  honest  ground  of  preference, 
Seeing  first,  liking  more,  and  there  an  end — 
But  as  we  all  had  started  equally, 
And  at  the  close  of  a  fair  race  he  proved 
The  only  valiant,  sage,  and  loyal  man. 
Herself,  too,  with  the  pretty  fits  and  starts — 
The  careless,  winning,  candid  ignorance 
Of  what  the  Prince  might  challenge  or  forego — 
,She  had  a  hero  in  reserve  !     What  risk  y> 

Ran  she  ?     This  deferential,  easy  Prince 
Who  brings  his  claims  for  her  to  ratify — 
He  's  just  her  puppet  for  the  nonce  !     You  '11  see — 
Valence  pronounces,  as  is  equitable, 
Against  him  :  off  goes  the  confederate: 
As  equitably,  Valence  takes  her  hand  ! 

The  Chancellor.   You  run  too  fast :    her  hand  no  subject 
takes. 
Do  not  our  archives  hold  her  father's  will  ? 
That  will  provides  against  such  accident, 
And  gives  next  heir,  Prince  Berthold,  the  reversion  40 

Of  Juliers,  which  she  forfeits,  wedding  so. 

Gaucelme.  I  know  that,  well  as  you — but  does  the  Prince  ? 
Knows  Berthold,  think  you,  that  this  plan,  he  helps, 
For  Valence's  ennoblement — would  end, 
If  crowned  with  the  success  which  seems  its  due, 
In  making  him  the  very  thing  he  plays, 
The  actual  Duke  of  Juliers?     All  agree 
That  Colombe's  title  waived  or  set  aside, 
He  is  next  heir. 

The  Chancellor.  Incontrovertibly. 

Gaucelme.  Guibert,  your  match,  now,  to  the  train  ! 

Guibert.  Enough ! 

I  'm  with  you  :  selfishness  is  best  again.  51 


ACT  IV. 


»57 


I  thought  of  turning  honest — what  a  dream  ! 
Let 's  wake  now  ! 

Gaucelme.  Selfish,  friend,  you  never  were  : 

'T  was  but  a  series  of  revenges  taken 
On  your  unselfishness  for  prospering  ill. 
But  now  that  you  're  grown  wiser,  what 's  our  course? — 

Guibert.  Wait,  I  suppose,  till  Valence  weds  our  lady, 
And  then,  if  we  must  needs  revenge  ourselves, 
Apprize  the  Prince. 

Gaucelme.  The  Prince,  ere  then  dismissed 

With  thanks  for  playing  his  mock  part  so  well?  60 

Tell  the  Prince  now,  sir  !     Ay,  this  very  night — 
Ere  he  accepts  his  dole  and  goes  his  way, 
Explain  how  such  a  marriage  makes  him  Duke, 
Then  trust  his  gratitude  for  the  surprise  ! 

Guibert.  Our  lady  wedding  Valence  all  the  same 
As  if  the  penalty  were  undisclosed  ? 
Good  !     If  she  loves,  she  Ml  not  disown  her  love, 
Throw  Valence  up.     I  wonder  you  see  that. 

Gaucelme.  The  shame  of  it — the  suddenness  and  shame! 
Within  her,  the  inclining  heart — without,  70 

A  terrible  array  of  witnesses — 
And  Valence  by,  to  keep  her  to  her  word, 
With  Berthold's  indignation  or  disgust ! 
We  Ml  try  it ! — Not  that  we  can  venture  much. 
Her  confidence  we  've  lost  forever ;  Berthold's 
Is  all  to  gain. 

Guibert.  To-night,  then,  venture  we  ! 

Yet — if  lost  confidence  might  be  renewed  ? 

Gaucelme.    Never    in    noble    natures!      With    the    base 
ones — 
Twist  off  the  crab's  claw,  wait  a  smarting-while, 
And  something  grows  and  grows  and  gets  to  be  80 

A  mimic  of  the  lost  joint,  just  so  like 
As  keeps  in  mind  it  never,  never  will 


I58  COLOMBES  BIRTHDAY. 

Replace  its  predecessor!     Crabs  do  that; 
But  lop  the  lion's  foot — and  — 

Guibert.  To  the  Prince  ! 

Gaucelme  [aside].  And  come  what  will  to  the  lion's  foot,  I 
pay  you, 
My  cat's-paw,  as  I  long  have  yearned  to  pay ! 
[Aloud]  Footsteps!     Himself!    'T  is  Valence  breaks  on  us, 
Exulting  that  their  scheme  succeeds.     We  '11  hence — 
And  perfect  ours  !     Consult  the  archives  first — 
Then,  fortified  with  knowledge,  seek  the  Hall  !  90 

Clugnet  [to  Gaucelme  as  they  retire].  You  have  not  smiled 
so  since  your  father  died  ! 

As  they  retire,  enter  Valence  with  papers. 

Valence.  So  must  it  be!  I  have  examined  these 
With  scarce  a  palpitating  heart — so  calm, 
Keeping  her  image  almost  wholly  off, 
Setting  upon  myself  determined  watch, 
Repelling  to  the  uttermost  his  claims, 
And  the  result  is — all  men  would  pronounce 
And  not  I,  only,  the  result  to  be — 
Berthold  is  heir ;  she  has  no  shade  of  right 
To  the  distinction  which  divided  us,  100 

But,  suffered  to  rule  first,  I  know  not  why, 
Her  rule  connived  at  by  those  Kings  and  Popes, 
To  serve  some  devil's-purpose — now  't  is  gained, 
Whate'er  it  was,  the  rule  expires  as  well. — 
Valence,  this  rapture — selfish  can  it  be? 
Eject  it  from  your  heart,  her  home  ! — It  stays  ! 
Ah!  the  brave  world  that  opens  on  us  both! — 
Do  my  poor  townsmen  so  esteem  it  ?     Cleves, 
I  need  not  your  pale  faces  !     This,  reward 
For  service  done  to  you  ?     Too  horrible  !  no 

I  never  served  you  ;  't  was  myself  I  served — 
Nay,  served  not — rather  saved  from  punishment 


ACT  IV.  159 

Which,  had  I  failed  you  then,  would  plague  me  now ! 
My  life  continues  yours,  and  your  life  mine. 
But  if,  to  take  God's  gift,  I  swerve  no  step — 
Cleves  ! — If  I  breathe  no  prayer  for  it — if  she, 

\F00tsteps  without. 
Colombe,  that  comes  now,  freely  gives  herself — 
Will  Cleves  require  that,  turning  thus  to  her, 
I— 

Enter  Prince  Berthold. 

Pardon,  sir !  I  did  not  look  for  you 
Till  night,  i1  the  Hall  ;  nor  have  as  yet  declared  i»o 

My  judgment  to  the  lady. 

Berthold.  So  I  hoped. 

Valence.    And    yet    I    scarcely    know    why   that    should 
check 
The  frank  disclosure  of  it  first  to  you — 
What  her  right  seems,  and  what,  in  consequence, 
She  will  decide  on — 

Berthold.  That  I  need  not  ask. 

Valence.  You  need  not :  I  have  proved  the  lady's  mind — 
And,  justice  being  to  do,  dare  act  for  her. 

Berthold.  Doubtless  she  has  a  very  noble  mind. 

Valence.  Oh !  never  fear  but  she  Ml  in  each  conjuncture 
Bear  herself  bravely  !     She  no  whit  depends  13° 

On  circumstance ;  as  she  adorns  a  throne, 
She  had  adorned — 

Berthold.  A  cottage — in  what  book 

Have  I  read  that  of  every  queen  that  lived  ? 
A  throne  !     You  have  not  been  instructed,  sure, 
To  forestall  my  request  ? 

Valence.  'T  is  granted,  sir ! 

My  heart  instructs  me.     I  have  scrutinized 
Your  claims — 

Berthold.      Ah  ! — claims,  you  mean,  at  first  preferred? 
I  come,  before  the  hour  appointed  me, 


,60  COLOMBES  HI  Rill  DAY. 

To  pray  you  let  those  claims  at  present  rest, 

In  favor  of  a  new  and  stronger  one.  uo 

Valence.  You  shall  not  need  a  stronger:  on  the  part 
O1  the  lady,  all  you  offer  I  accept, 
Since  one  clear  right  suffices :  yours  is  clear. 
Propose ! 

Bert  hold.  I  offer  her  my  hand. 

Valence.  Your  hand  ? 

Berthold.  A  Duke's,  yourself  say  ;  and,  at  no  far  time, 
Something  here  whispers  me — the  Emperor's. 
The  lady's  mind  is  noble ;  which  induced 
This  seizure  of  occasion  ere  my  claims 
Were — settled,  let  us  amicably  say  1 

Valence.  Your  hand  ! 

Berthold.  He  will  fall  clown  and  kiss  it  next! — 

Sir,  this  astonishment 's  too  flattering,  151 

Nor  must  you  hold  your  mistress'  worth  so  cheap. 
Enhance  it,  rather — urge  that  blood  is  blood — 
The  daughter  of  the  Burgraves,  Landgraves,  Markgraves, 
Remains  their  daughter!     I  shall  scarce  gainsay. 
Elsewhere  or  here,  the  lady  needs  must  rule ; 
Like  the  imperial  crown's  threat  chrysoprase, 
They  talk  of — somewhat  out  of  keeping  there, 
And  yet  no  jewel  for  a  meaner  cap. 

Valence.  You  wed  the  Duchess? 

Berthold.  Cry  you  mercy,  friend  ! 

Will  the  match  also  influence  fortunes  here  ?  16: 

A  natural  solicitude  enough. 
Be  certain,  no  bad  chance  it  proves  for  you! 
However  high  you  take  your  present  stand, 
There  's  prospect  of  a  higher  still  remove — 
For  Juliers  will  not  be  my  resting-place, 
And,  when  I  have  to  choose  a  substitute 
To  rule  the  little  burgh,  I  '11  think  of  you. 
You  need  not  give  your  mates  a  character. 


ACT  IV.  rfi 

And  yet  I  doubt  your  fitness  to  supplant  17° 

The  gray,  smooth  chamberlain  :  he  'd  hesitate 

A  doubt  his  lady  could  demean  herself 

So  low  as  to  accept  me.     Courage,  sir ! 

I  like  your  method  better:  feeling's  play 

Is  franker  much,  and  flatters  me  beside. 

Valence.  I  am  to  say,  you  love  her? 

Berthold.  Say  that  too! 

Love  has  no  great  concernment,  thinks  the  world, 
With  a  Duke's  marriage.     How  go  precedents 
In  Julier's  story — how  use  Juliers'  Dukes? 
I  see  you  have  them  here  in  goodly  row  ;  180 

Yon  must  be  Luitpold — ay,  a  stalwart  sire  ! — 
Say,  I  have  been  arrested  suddenly 
In  my  ambition's  course,  its  rocky  course, 
By  this  sweet  flower:   I  fain  would  gather  it 
And  then  proceed — so  say  and  speedily — 
Nor  stand  there  like  Duke  Luitpold's  brazen  self! — 
Enough,  sir:  you  possess  my  mind,  I  think. 
This  is  my  claim,  the  others  being  withdrawn, 
And  to  this  be  it  that,  i'  the  Hall  to-night, 
Your  lady's  answer  comes  ;  till  when,  farewell !     \He  retires. 

Valence  [after  a  pause].  The  heavens  and  earth  stay  as 
they  were;  my  heart  191 

Beats  as  it  beat :  the  truth  remaius  the  truth. 
What  falls  away,  then,  if  not  faith  in  her? 
Was  it  my  faith  that  she  could  estimate 
Love's  value,  and,  such  faith  still  guiding  me, 
Dare  I  now  test  her  ?     Or  grew  faith  so  strong 
Solely  because  no  power  of  test  was  mine? 

Enter  the  Duchess. 

The  Duchess.  My  fate,  sir !     Ah !  you  turn  away.     All  's 
over. 
But  you  are  sorry  for  me?     Be  not  so ! 
11 


1 62  COLOMHE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

What  I  might  have  become,  and  never  was,  aoo 

Regret  with  me  !     What  I  have  merely  been, 

Rejoice  I  am  no  longer !     What  I  seem 

Beginning  now,  in  my  new  state,  to  be, 

Hope  that  I  am  ! — for,  once  my  rights  proved  void, 

This  heavy  roof  seems  easy  to  exchange 

For  the  blue  sky  outside — my  lot  henceforth. 

Valence.  And  what  a  lot  is  Berthold's ! 

The  Duchess.  How  of  him  ? 

Valence.  He  gathers  earth's  whole  good  into  his  arms  ; 
Standing,  as  man  now,  stately,  strong,  and  wise, 
Marching  to  fortune,  not  surprised  by  her.  210 

One  great  aim,  like  a  guiding-star,  above — 
Which  tasks  strength,  wisdom,  stateliness,  to  lift 
His  manhood  to  the  height  that  takes  the  prize; 
A  prize  not  near — lest  overlooking  earth 
He  rashly  spring  to  seize  it — nor  remote, 
So  that  he  rest  upon  his  path  content: 
But  day  by  day,  while  shimmering  grows  shine, 
And  the  faint  circlet  prophesies  the  orb, 
He  sees  so  much  as,  just  evolving  these, 
The  stateliness,  the  wisdom,  and  the  strength,  aao 

To  due  completion,  will  suffice  this  life, 
And  lead  him  at  his  grandest  to  the  grave. 
After  this  star,  out  of  a  night  he  springs  ; 
A  beggar's  cradle  for  the  throne  of  thrones 
He  quits ;  so,  mounting,  feels  each  step  he  mounts, 
Nor,  as  from  each  to  each  exultingly 
He  passes,  overleaps  one  grade  of  joy. 
This,  for  his  own  good : — with  the  world,  each  gift 
Of  God  and  man — reality,  tradition, 

Fancy  and  fact — so  well  environ  him,  230 

That  as  a  mystic  panoply  they  serve — 
Of  force,  untenanted,  to  awe  mankind, 
And  work  his  purpose  out  with  half  the  world, 


ACT  IV.  163 

While  he,  their  master,  dexterously  slipt 

From  such  encumbrance,  is  meantime  employed 

With  his  own  prowess  on  the  other  half. 

Thus  shall  he  prosper,  every  day's  success 

Adding,  to  what  is  he,  a  solid  strength — 

An  aery  might  to  what  encircles  him, 

Till  at  the  last,  so  life's  routine  lends  help,  240 

That  as  the  Emperor  only  breathes  and  moves, 

His  shadow  shall  be  watched,  his  step  or  stalk 

Become  a  comfort  or  a  portent,  how 

He  trails  his  ermine  take  significance — 

Till  even  his  power  shall  cease  to  be  most  power, 

And  men  shall  dread  his  weakness  more,  nor  dare 

Peril  their  earth  its  bravest,  first  and  best, 

Its  typified  invincibility. 

Thus  shall  he  go  on,  greatening,  till  he  ends — 

The  man  of  men,  the  spirit  of  all  flesh,  350 

The  fiery  centre  of  an  earthly  world  ! 

The  Duchess.  Some  such  a  fortune  I  had  dreamed  should 
rise 
Out  of  my  own — that  is,  above  my  power 
Seemed  other,  greater  potencies  to  stretch — 

Valence.  For  you  ? 

The  Duchess.  Tt  was  not  I  moved  there,  I  think  ; 

But  one  I  could  —though  constantly  beside, 
And  aye  approaching — still  keep  distant  from, 
And  so  adore.     'T  was  a  man  moved  there. 

Valence.  Who  ? 

The  Duchess.  I  felt  the  spirit,  never  saw  the  face. 

Valence.  See  it !     T  is  Berthold's  !     He  enables  you       360 
To  realize  your  vision. 

The  Duchess.  Berthold  ? 

Valence.  Duke — 

Emperor  to  be  :  he  proffers  you  his  hand. 

The  Duchess.  Generous  and  princely  ! 


r64  COLOMBKS  BIRTHDAY. 

Valence.  He  is  all  of  this. 

The  Duchess.  Thanks,  Berthold,  for  my  father's  sake.     No 
hand 
Degrades  me  ! 

Valence.  You  accept  the  proffered  hand  ? 

The  Duchess.  That  he  should  love  me  ! 

Valence.  '  Loved  '  I  did  not  say ! 

Had  that  been — love  might  so  incline  the  Prince 
To  the  world's  good,  the  world  that 's  at  his  foot — 
I  do  not  know,  this  moment,  I  should  dare 
Desire  that  you  refused  the  world — and  Cleves —  27° 

The  sacrifice  he  asks. 

The  Duchess.  Not  love  me,  sir  ? 

Valence.  He  scarce  affirmed  it. 

The  Duchess.  May  not  deeds  affirm  ? 

Valence.  What  does  he  ? — Yes,  yes,  very  much  he  does  ! 
All  the  shame  saved,  he  thinks,  and  sorrow  saved — 
Immitigable  sorrow,  so  he  thinks — 
Sorrow  that 's  deeper  than  we  dream,  perchance ! 

The  Duchess.  Is  not  this  love  ? 

Valence.  So  very  much  he  does ! 

For  look,  you  can  descend  now  gracefully : 
All  doubts  are  banished  that  the  world  might  have, 
Or  worst,  the  doubts  yourself,  in  after-time,  280 

May  call  up  of  your  heart's  sincereness  now. 
To  such,  reply, '  I  could  have  kept  my  rule — 
Increased  it  to  the  utmost  of  my  dreams — 
Yet  I  abjured  it.'     This  he  does  for  you  : 
It  is  munificently  much. 

The  Duchess.  Still  '  much !' 

But  why  is  it  not  love,  sir?     Answer  me ! 

Valence.  Because  not  one  of  Berthold's  words  and  looks 
Had  gone  with  love's  presentment  of  a  flower 
To  the  beloved  :  because  bold  confidence. 
Open  superiority,  free  pride —  390 


ACT  IV.  165 

Love  owns  not,  yet  were  all  that  Berthold  owned : 
Because  where  reason- even  finds  no  flaw, 
Unerringly  a  lover's  instinct  may. 

The  Duchess.  You  reason,  then,  and  doubt  ? 

Valence.  I  love,  and  know. 

The  Duchess.  You  love  ? — How  strange  !     I  never  cast  a 
thought 
On  that*!     Just  see  our  selfishness!     You  seemed 
So  much  my  own — I  had  no  ground — and  yet, 
I  never  dreamed  another  might  divide 
My  power  with  you,  much  less  exceed  it. 

Valence.  Lady, 

I  am  yours  wholly. 

The  Duchess.  Oh !  no,  no,  not  mine !  3°° 

T  is  not  the  same  now,  never  more  can  be. — 
Your  first  love,  doubtless.     Well,  what 's  gone  from  me  ? 
What  have  I  lost  in  you  ? 

Valence.  My  heart  replies — 

No  loss  there  !     So  to  Berthold  back  again  : 
This  offer  of  his  hand  he  bids  me  make — 
Its  obvious  magnitude  is  well  to  weigh. 

The  Duchess.  She  's — yes,  she  must  be  very  fair  for  you  ! 

Valence.  I  am  a  simple  advocate  of  Cleves. 

The  Duchess.  You !     With  the  heart  and  brain  that  so 
helped  me, 
I  fancied  them  exclusively  my  own,  310 

Yet  find  are  subject  to  a  stronger  sway  ! 
She  must  be — tell  me,  is  she  very  fair? 

Valence.  Most  fair,  beyond  conception  or  belief. 

The  Duchess.    Black   eyes? — no  matter!     Colombe,  the 
world  leads 
Its  life  without  you,  whom  your  friends  professed 
The  only  woman — see  how  true  they  spoke ! 
One  lived  this  while,  who  never  saw  your  face, 
Nor  heard  your  voice — unless —     Is  she  from  Cleves  ? 


1 66  COLOMBES  BIRTHDAY. 

Valence.  Cleves  knows  her  well. 

The  Duchess.  Ah  ! — just  a  fancy,  now  ! 

When  you  poured  forth  the  wrongs  of  Cleves — I  said —      3*° 
Thought,  that  is,  afterward — 

Valence.  You  thought  of  me? 

The  Duchess.  Of  whom  ^else  ?     Only  such  great  cause,  I 
thought, 
For  such  effect :  see  what  true  love  can  do  ! 
Cleves  is  his  love.     I  almost  fear  to  ask — 
And  will  not.     This  is  idling :  to  our  work  ! 
Admit  before  the  Prince,  without  reserve, 
My  claims  misgrounded  ;  then  may  follow  better — 
When  you  poured  out  Cleves'  wrongs  impetuously, 
Was  she  in  your  mind  ? 

Valence.  All  done  was  done  for  her — 

To  humble  me ! 

The  Duchess.      She  will  be  proud  at  least.  33* 

Valence.  She  ? 

The  Duchess.      When  you  tell  her. 

Valence.  That  will  never  be. 

The  Duchess.  How — are  there  sweeter  things  vou  hope  to 
tell  ? 
No,  sir!     You  counselled  me — I  counsel  you 
In  the  one  point  I — any  woman — can. 
Your  worth,  the  first  thing;  let  her  own  come  next — ^ 
Say  what  you  did  through  her,  and  she  through  you—. 
The  praises  of  her  beauty  afterward  ! 
Will  you?  ,     » 

Valence.     I  dare  not. 

The  Duchess.  Dare  not  ? 

Valence.  She  I  love 

Suspects  not  such  a  love  in  me. 

The  Duchess.  You  jest. 

Valence.  The  lady  is  above  me  and  away.  34° 

Not  only  the  brave  form,  and  the  bright  mind, 


ACT  IV.  167 

And  the  great  heart,  combine  to  press  me  low — 
But  all  the  world  calls  rank  divides  us. 

The  Duchess.  Rank ! 

Now  grant  me  patience  !     Here  's  a  man  declares 
Oracularly  in  another's  case — 
Sees  the  true  value  and  the  false,  for  them — 
Nay,  bids  them  see  it,  and  they  straight  do  see. 
You  called  my  court's  love  worthless — so  it  turned  : 
I  threw  away  as  dross  my  heap  of  wealth, 
And  here  you  stickle  for  a  piece  or  two !  35° 

First — has  she  seen  you  ? 

Valence.  Yes. 

The  Duchess.  She  loves  you,  then. 

Valence.  One  flash  of  hope  burst,  then  succeeded  night ; 
And  all 's  at  darkest  now.     Impossible ! 

The  Duchess.  We  '11  try:  you  are — so  to  speak — my  sub- 
ject yet  ? 

Valence.  As  ever — to  the  death. 

The  Duchess.  Obey  me,  then ! 

Valence.   I  must. 

The  Duchess.  Approach  her,  and — no !  first  of  all 

Get  more  assurance.     '  My  instructress,'  say, 
1  Was  great,  descended  from  a  line  of  kings, 
And  even  fair ' — wait  why  I  say  this  folly — 
'  She  said,  of  all  men,  none  for  eloquence,  360 

Courage,  and — what  cast  even  these  to  shade — 
The  heart  they  sprung  from — none  deserved  like  him 
Who  saved  her  at  her  need  :  if  she  said  this, 
What  should  not  one  I  love,  say  ?' 

Valence.  Heaven — this  hope — 

O  lady,  you  are  filling  me  with  fire! 

The  Duchess.  Say  this ! — nor  think  I  bid  you  cast  aside 
<  Iik'  touch  of  all  the  awe  and  reverence; 
Nay — make  her  proud  for  once  to  heart's  content 
I'll  at  all  this  wealth  of  heart  and  soul  's  her  own  !• 


^8  COLOMBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Think  you  are  all  of  this — and,  thinking  it —  370 

Obey  ! 

Valence.  I  cannot  choose. 

The  Duchess.  Then,  kneel  to  her — 

[  Valence  sinks  on  his  knee. 
I  dream  ! 

Valence.    Have  mercy  1     Yours,  unto  the  death — 
I  have  obeyed.     Despise,  and  let  me  die  ! 

The  Duchess.  Alas!  sir,  is  it  to  be  ever  thus? 
Even  with  you  as  with  the  world?     I  know 
This  morning's  service  was  no  vulgar  deed 
Whose  motive,  once  it  dares  avow  itself, 
Explains  all  done  and  infinitely  more, 
So  takes  the  shelter  of  a  nobler  cause. 
Your  service  named  its  true  source — loyalty  !  380 

The  rest 's  unsaid  again.     The  Duchess  bids  you, 
Rise,  sir.     The  Prince's  words  were  in  debate. 

Valence  [rising].  Rise?     Truth,  as  ever,  lady,  comes  from 
you ! 
I  should  rise — I  who  spoke  for  Cleves,  can  speak 
For  man — yet  tremble  now,  who  stood  firm  then. 
I  laughed — for  't  was  past  tears— that  Cleves  should  starve 
With  all  hearts  beating  loud  the  infamy, 
And  no  tongue  daring  trust  as  much  to  air  : 
Yet  here,  where  all  hearts  speak,  shall  I  be  mute? 

0  lady,  for  your  own  sake  look  on  me  !  390 
On  all  I  am,  and  have,  and  do — heart,  brain, 

Body  and  soul — this  Valence  and  his  gifts  ! 

1  was  proud  once :  I  saw  you,  and  they  sank, 
So  that  each,  magnified  a  thousand  times, 
Were  nothing  to  you — but  such  nothingness, 
Would  a  crown  gild  it,  or  a  sceptre  prop, 

A  treasure  speed,  a  laurel-wreath  enhance? 
What  is  my  own  desert?     But  should  your  love 
Have — there  's  no  language  helps  here — singled  me — 


ACT  IK  !69 

Then— oh  !  that  wild  word  '  then  !' — be  just  to  love,  4oo 

In  generosity  its  attribute  ! 

Love,  since  you  pleased  to  love  !     All 's  cleared — a  stage 

For  trial  of  the  question  kept  so  long : 

Judge  you — Is  love  or  vanity  the  best  ? 

You,  solve  it  for  the  world's  sake — you,  speak  first 

What  all  will  shout  one  day — you,  vindicate 

Our  earth  and  be  its  angel !     All  is  said. 

Lady,  I  offer  nothing — I  am  yours : 

But,  for  the  cause'  sake,  look  on  me  and  him, 

And  speak ! 

The  Duchess.  I  have  received  the  Prince's  message :       410 
Say,  I  prepare  my  answer ! 

Valence.  Take  me,  Cleves  ! 

\He  withdraws. 

The  Duchess.  Mournful  —  that  nothing  's  what  it  calls  it- 
self! 
Devotion,  zeal,  faith,  loyalty — mere  love  ! 
And,  love  in  question,  what  may  Berthold's  be? 
I  did  ill  to  mistrust  the  world  so  soon  : 
Already  was  this  Berthold  at  my  side. 
The  valley-level  has  its  hawks  no  doubt: 
May  not  the  rock-top  have  its  eagles,  too? 
Yet  Valence — let  me  see  his  rival  then  ! 


'7° 


COL  O WEE'S  MR  T//DA  Y. 


ACT  V. 

Night.     Scene.— The  Hall. 

Enter  Berthold  and  Melchior. 

Melchior.  And  here  you  wait  the  matter's  issue  ? 

Berthold.  Here. 

Melchior.  I  don't  regret  I  shut  Amelius,  then. 
But  tell  me,  on  this  grand  disclosure — how 
Behaved  our  spokesman  with  the  forehead  ? 

Berthold.  Oh ! 

Turned  out  no  better  than  the  foreheadless — 
Was  dazzled  not  so  very  soon,  that 's  all ! 
For  my  part,  this  is  scarce  the  hasty,  showy, 
Chivalrous  measure  you  give  me  credit  of. 
Perhaps  I  had  a  fancy — but 't  is  gone. — 
Let  her  commence  the  unfriended  innocent 
And  carry  wrongs  about  from  court  to  court  ? 
No,  truly  !     The  least  shake  of  Fortune's  sand — 
My  uncle-Pope  chokes  in  a  coughing  fit, 
King-cousin  takes  a  fancy  to  blue  eyes — 
And  wondrously  her  claims  would  brighten  up ; 
Forth  comes  a  new  gloss  on  the  ancient  law, 
O'erlooked  provisos,  o'erpast  premises, 
Follow  in  plenty.     No :  't  is  the  safe  step. 
The  hour  beneath  the  convent-wall  is  lost: 
Juliers  and  she,  once  mine,  are  ever  mine. 

Melchior.  Which  is  to  say,  you,  losing  heart  already, 
Flude  the  adventure. 

Berthold.  Not  so — or,  if  so — 


ACT  V. 


171 


Why  not  confess  at  once  that  I  advise 

None  of  our  kingly  craft  and  guild  just  now 

To  lay,  one  moment,  down  their  privilege 

With  the  notion  they  can  any  time  at  pleasure 

Retake  it:  that  may  turn  out  hazardous. 

We  seem,  in  Europe,  pretty  well  at  end 

O'  the  night,  with  our  great  masque  :  those  favored  few 

Who  keep  the  chamber's  top,  and  honor's  chance  3° 

Of  the  early  evening,  may  retain  their  place 

And  figure  as  they  list  till  out  of  breath. 

But  it  is  growing  late  :  and  I  observe 

A  dim  grim  kind  of  tipstaves  at  the  doorway 

Not  only  bar  new-comers  entering  now, 

But  caution  those  who  left,  for  any  cause, 

And  would  return,  that  morning  draws  too  near; 

The  ball  must  die  off,  shut  itself  up.     We — 

I  think,  may  dance  lights  out  and  sunshine  in, 

And  sleep  off  headache  on  our  frippery  :  4° 

But  friend  the  other,  who  cunningly  stole  out, 

And,  after  breathing  the  fresh  air  outside, 

Means  to  re-enter  with  a  new  costume, 

Will  be  advised  go  back  to  bed,  I  fear. 

I  stick  to  privilege,  on  second  thoughts. 

Melchior.  Yes — you  evade  the  adventure :  and,  beside, 
Give  yourself  out  for  colder  than  you  are. 
King  Philip,  only,  notes  the  lady's  eyes? 
Don't  they  come  in  for  somewhat  of  the  motive 
With  you  too? 

Berthold.  Yes — no:  I  am  past  that  now.  y> 

Gone  't  is :  I  cannot  shut  my  soul  to  fact. 
Of  course,  I  might  by  forethought  and  contrivance 
Reason  myself  into  a  rapture.     Gone  : 
And  something  better  come  instead,  no  doubt. 

Melchior.  So  be  it !     Yet,  all  the  same,  proceed  my  way, 
Though  to  your  ends;  so  shall  you  prosper  best ! 


i72  COLO  MEETS   BIRTHDAY. 

The  lady — to  be  won  for  selfish  ends — 
Will  be  won  easier  my  unselfish — call  it, 
Romantic  way. 

Berthold.  Won  easier? 

Melthior.  -Will  not  she? 

Berthold.  There  I  profess  humility  without  bound:  60 

111  cannot  speed — not  I — the  Emperor. 

Melchior.  And  I  should  think  the  Emperor  best  waived, 
From  your  description  of  her  mood  and  way. 
You  could  look,  if  it  pleased  you,  into  hearts, 
But  are  too  indolent  and  fond  of  watching 
Your  own — you  know  that,  for  you  study  it. 

Berthold.  Had  you  but  seen  the  orator  her  friend, 
So  bold  and  voluble  an  hour  before, 
Abashed  to  earth  at  aspect  of  the  change  ! 
Make  her  an  Empress?     Ah!  that  changed  the  case!          7° 
Oh !  I  read  hearts  !     T  is  for  my  own  behoof, 
I  court  her  with  my  true  worth  :  wait  the  event ! 
I  learned  my  final  lesson  on  that  head 
When  years  ago — my  first  and  last  essay — 
Before  the  priest  my  uncle  could  by  help 
Of  his  superior  raise  me  from  the  dirt — 
Priscilla  left  me  for  a  Brabant  lord 
Whose  cheek  was  like  the  topaz  on  his  thumb. 
I  am  past  illusion  on  that  score. 

Melchior.  Here  comes 

The  lady — 

Berthold.  And  there  you  go.     But  do  not !     Give  me       *o 
Another  chance  to  please  you !     Hear  me  plead  ! 

Melchior.  You  '11  keep,  then,  to  the  lover,  to  the  man  ? 

Enter  the  Duchess,  follozved  by  Adolf  and  Sabyne,  and  af- 
ter an  interval  by  the  Courtiers. 

Berthold.  Good  auspice  to  our  meeting! 

7'he  Duchess.  May  it  prove  ! — 

And  you,  sir,  will  be  Emperor  one  day? 


ACT  V. 


1 73 


Berthold.  Ay,  that 's  the  point! — I  may  be  Emperor. 

The  Duchess.  T  is  not  for  my  sake  only,  I  am  proud 
Of  this  you  offer ;  I  am  prouder  far 
That  from  the  highest  state  should  duly  spring 
The  highest,  since  most  generous,  of  deeds. 

Berthold.  Generous— still  that ! — You  underrate  yourself. 
You  are,  what  I,  to  be  complete,  must  have —  91 

Find  now,  and  may  not  find,  another  time. 
While  I  career  on  all  the  world  for  stage, 
There  needs  at  home  my  representative. 

The  Duchess.  Such,  rather,  would  some  warrior-woman  be — 
One  dowered  with  lands  and  gold,  or  rich  in  friends — 
One  like  yourself. 

Berthold.  Lady,  I  am  myself, 

And  have  all  these:  I  want  what 's  not  myself, 
Nor  has  all  these.     Why  give  one  hand  two  swords? 
Here  's  one  already  ;  be  a  friend's  next  gift  100 

A  silk  glove,  if  you  will — I  have  a  sword. 

The  Duchess.  You  love  me,  then  ? 

Berthold.  Your  lineage  I  revere, 

Honor  your  virtue,  in  your  truth  believe, 
Do  homage  to  your  intellect,  and  bow 
Before  your  peerless  beauty. 

The  Duchess.  But,  for  love — 

Berthold.  A  further  love  I  do  not  understand. 
Our  best  course  is  to  say  these  hideous  truths, 
And  see  them,  once  said,  grow  endurable  : 
Like  waters  shuddering  from  their  central  bed, 
Black  with  the  midnight  bowels  of  the  earth,  no 

That,  once  up-spouted  by  an  earthquake's  throe, 
A  portent  and  a  terror — soon  subside, 
Freshen  npace,  take  gold  and  rainbow  hues 
In  sunshine,  sleep  in  shadow,  and  at  last 
Grow  common  to  the  earth  as  hills  or  trees — 
Accepted  by  all  things  they  came  to  scare. 


i74  COLOA/BE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

The  Duchess.     You  cannot  love,  then  ? 

Berthold.  Charlemagne,  perhaps ! 

Are  you  not  over-curious  in  love-lore  ? 

The  Duchess.  I  have  become  so  very  recently. 
It  seems,  then,  I  shall  best  deserve  esteem,  i*> 

Respect,  and  all  your  candor  promises, 
By  putting  on  a  calculating  mood — 
Asking  the  terms  of  my  becoming  yours  ? 

Berthold.  Let  me  not  do  myself  injustice,  neither. 
Because  I  will  not  condescend  to  fictions 
That  promise  what  my  soul  can  ne'er  acquit, 
It  does  not  follow  that  my  guarded  phrase 
May  not  include  far  more  of  what  you  seek 
Than  wide  profession  of  less  scrupulous  men. 
You  will  be  Empress,  once  for  all ;  with  me  130 

The  Pope  disputes  supremacy — you  stand, 
And  none  gainsays,  the  earth's  first  woman. 

The  Duchess.  That — 

Or  simple  Lady  of  Ravestein  again? 

Berthold.     The  matter's  not  in  my  arbitrament : 
Now  I  have  my  claims — which  I  regret — 
Cede  one,  cede  all. 

The  Duchess.  This  claim,  then,  you  enforce? 

Berthold.  The  world  looks  on. 

The  Duchess.  And  when  must  I  decide  ? 

Berthold.  When,  lady  ?  Have  I  said  thus  much  so  promptly 
For  nothing? — poured  out,  with  such  pains,  at  once 
What  I  might  else  have  suffered  to  ooze  forth  mo 

Droplet  by  droplet  in  a  lifetime  long — 
For  aught  less  than  as  prompt  an  answer,  too  ? 
All 's  fairly  told  now:  who  can  teach  you  more? 

The  Duchess.  I  do  not  see  him. 

Berthold.  I  shall  ne'er  deceive. 

This  offer  should  be  made  befittingly, 
Did  time  allow  the  better  setting  forth 


ACT  V. 


«75 


The  good  of  it,  with  what  is  not  so  good, 

Advantage,  and  disparagement  as  well ; 

But,  as  it  is,  the  sum  of  both  must  serve. 

I  am  already  weary  of  this  place  ;  .  150 

My  thoughts  are  next  stage  on  to  Rome.     Decide ! 

The  Empire — or — not  even  Juliers  now! 

Hail  to  the  Empress — farewell  to  the  Duchess  ! — 

[  The  Courtiers,  who  have  been  drawing  nearer  and  near- 
er, interpose. 

Gaucelme.  'Farewell,'  Prince?  when  we  break  in  at  our 
risk — 

Clugnet.  Almost  upon  court-license  trespassing — 

Gaucelme.  To  point  out  how  your  claims  are  valid  yet ! 
You  know  not,  by  the  Duke  her  father's  will, 
The  lady,  if  she  weds  beneath  her  rank, 
Forfeits  her  Duchy  in  the  next  heir's  favor — 
So  't  is  expressly  stipulate.     And  if  160 

It  can  be  shown  't  is  her  intent  to  wed 
A  subject,  then  yourself,  next  heir,  by  right 
Succeed  to  Juliers. 

Berthold.  What  insanity  ! — 

Guibert.  Sir,  there  's  one  Valence,  the  pale  fiery  man 
You  saw  and  heard  this  morning — thought,  no  doubt, 
Was  of  considerable  standing  here : 
I  put  it  to  your  penetration,  Prince, 
If  aught  save  love,  the  truest  love  for  her 
Could  make  him  serve  the  lady  as  he  did  ! 
He  's  simply  a  poor  advocate  of  Cleves —  170 

Creeps  here  with  difficulty,  finds  a  place 
With  danger,  gets  in  by  a  miracle, 
And  for  the  first  time  meets  the  lady's  face — 
So  runs  the  story  :  is  that  credible  ? 
For,  first — no  sooner  in,  than  he  's  apprised 
Fortunes  have  changed  ;  you  are  all-powerful  here, 
The  lady  as  powerless :  he  stands  fast  by  her ! 


I76  COLOMB&S  BIRTHDAY. 

The  Duchess  \aside\  And  do  such  deeds  spring  up  from 
love  alone  ? 

Guibert.  But  here  occurs  the  question,  does  the  lady 
Love  him  again  ?     I  say,  how  else  can  she?  180 

Can  she  forget  how  he  stood  singly  forth 
In  her  defence,  dared  outrage  all  of  us, 
Insult  yourself — for  what,  save  love's  reward  ? 

The  Duchess  [aside].  And  is  love  then  the  sole  reward  of 
love  ? 

Guibert.  But,  love  him  as  she  may  and  must — you  ask, 
Means  she  to  wed  him  ?     '  Yes,'  both  natures  answer  ! 
Both,  in  their  pride,  point  out  the  sole  result ; 
Nought  less  would  he  accept  nor  she  propose. 
For  each  conjuncture  was  she  great  enough — 
Will  be  for  this. 

Clugnet.  Though,  now  that  this  is  known,  19° 

Policy,  doubtless,  urges  she  deny — 

The  Duchess.  What,  sir,  and  wherefore? — since  I  am  not 
sure 
That  all  is  any  other  than  you  say  ! 
You  take  this  Valence,  hold  him  close  to  me, 
Him  with  his  actions :  can  I  choose  but  look  ? 
I  am  not  sure  love  trulier  shows  itself 
Than  in  this  man  you  hate  and  would  degrade, 
Yet,  with  your  worst  abatement,  show  me  thus. 
Nor  am  I — thus  made  look  within  myself 
Ere  I  had  dared — now  that  the  look  is  dared —  200 

Sure  that  I  do  not  love  him  ! 

Guibert.  Hear  you,  Prince  ? 

Berthold.  And  what,  sirs,  please  you,  may  this  prattle  mean, 
Unless  to  prove  with  what  alacrity 
You  give  your  lady's  secrets  to  the  world  ? 
How  much  indebted,  for  discovering 
That  quality,  you  make  me,  will  be  found 
When  there  's  a  keeper  for  my  own  to  seek. 


ACT  V.  177 

Courtiers.  '  Our  lady  ?' — 

Berthold.  She  assuredly  remains. 

The  Duchess.  Ah,  Prince! — and  you  too  can  be  generous? 
You  could  renounce  your  power,  if  this  were  so,  210 

And  let  me,  as  these  phrase  it,  wed  my  love 
Yet  keep  my  Duchy  ?  You  perhaps  exceed 
Him  even  in  disinterestedness! 

Berthold.  How,  lady,  should  all  this  affect  my  purpose  ? 
Your  will  and  choice  are  still,  as  ever,  free. 
Say,  you  have  known  a  worthier  than  myself 
In  mind  and  heart,  of  happier  form  and  face — 
Others  must  have  their  birthright:  I  have  gifts, 
To  balance  theirs,  not  blot  them  out  of  sight. 
Against  a  hundred  alien  qualities,  220 

I  lay  the  prize  I  offer.     I  am  nothing : 
Wed  you  the  Empire? 

The  Duchess.  And  my  heart  away? 

Berthold.  When  have  1  made  pretension  to  your  heart  ? 
I  give  none.     I  shall  keep  your  honor  safe  ; 
With  mine  I  trust  you,  as  the  sculptor  trusts 
Yon  marble  woman  with  the  marble  rose, 
Loose  on  her  hand,  she  never  will  let  fall, 
In  graceful,  slight,  silent  security. 
You  will  be  proud  of  my  world-wide  career, 
And  I  content  in  you  the  fair  and  good.  330 

What  were  the  use  of  planting  a  few  seeds 
The  thankless  climate  never  would  mature — 
Affections  all  repelled  by  circumstance  ? 
Enough  :  to  these  no  credit  I  attach — 
To  what  you  own  find  nothing  to  object. 
Write  simply  on  my  requisition's  face 
What  shall  content  my  friends — that  you  admit, 
As  Colombe  of  Ravestein,  the  claims  therein, 
Or  never  need  admit  them,  as  my  wife — 
And  either  way,  all  's  ended  I       , 
1  j 


I78  COLOMBE'S  BIRTHDAY: 

The  Duchess.  Let  all  end !  a4o 

BerthoU.  The  requisition  ! — 

Guibert.  Valence  holds,  of  course  ! 

Berthold.  Desire  his  presence  !  [Adolf  goes  out. 

Courtiers  [to  each  other].  Out  it  all  comes  yet ; 

He'll  have  his  word  against  the  bargain  yet: 
He  's  not  the  man  to  tamely  acquiesce. 
One  passionate  appeal — upbraiding  even, 
May  turn  the  tide  again.     Despair  not  yet ! 

[They  retire  a  little. 

Berthold  [to  Melchior].  The  Empire  has  its  old  success,  my 
friend ! 

Melchior.  You  've  had  your  way  :  before  the  spokesman 
speaks, 
Let  me  but  this  once  work  a  problem  out, 
And  ever  more  be  dumb  !     The  Empire  wins  ?  950 

To  better  purpose  have  I  read  my  books ! 

Enter  Valence. 
Melchior  [to  the  Courtiers].  Apart,  my  masters  ! 

[To  Valence]  Sir,  one  word  with  you  ! 
I  am  a  poor  dependant  of  the  Prince's — 
Pitched  on  to  speak,  as  of  slight  consequence. 
You  are  no  higher,  I  find ;  in  other  words, 
We  two,  as  probably  the  wisest  here, 
Need  not  hold  diplomatic  talk  like  fools. 
Suppose  I  speak,  divesting  the  plain  fact 
Of  all  their  tortuous  phrases,  fit  for  them  ? 
Do  you  reply  so,  and  what  trouble  saved !  269 

The  Prince,  then — an  embroiled  strange  heap  of  news 
This  moment  reaches  him — if  true  or  false, 
All  dignity  forbids  he  should  inquire 
In  person  or  by  worthier  deputy, 
Yet  somehow  must  inquire,  lest  slander  come  ; 
And  so  't  is  I  am  pitched  on.     You  have  heard 
His  offer  to  your  lady? 


ACT  V. 


179 


Valence.  Yes. 

Melchior.  Conceive 

Her  joy  thereat? 

Valence.  I  cannot. 

Melchior.  No  one  can  : 

All  draws  to  a  conclusion,  therefore. 

Valence  [aside].  So ! 

No  after-judgment — no  first  thought  revised —  270 

Her  first  and  last  decision  ! — me  she  leaves, 
Takes  him  ;  a  simple  heart  is  flung  aside, 
The  ermine  o'er  a  heartless  breast  embraced. 
O  Heaven,  this  mockery  has  been  played  too  oft ! 
Once,  to  surprise  the  angels — twice,  that  fiends, 
Recording,  might  be  proud  they  chose  not  so — 
Thrice,  many  thousand  times,  to  teach  the  world 
All  men  should  pause,  misdoubt  their  strength,  since  men 
Can  have  such  chance  yet  fail  so  signally — 
But  ever,  ever  this  farewell  to  Heaven,  »&> 

Welcome  to  earth — this  taking  death  for  life — 
This  spurning  love  and  kneeling  to  the  world — 

0  Heaven,  it  is  too  often  and  too  old ! 

Melchior.  Well,  on  this  point,  what  but  an  absurd  rumor 
Arises — these,  its  source — its  subject,  you  ! 
Your  faith  and  loyalty  misconstruing, 
They  say  your  service  claims  the  lady's  hand ! 
Of  course,  nor  Prince  nor  lady  can  respond: 
Yet  something  must  be  said  ;  for,  were  it  true 
You  made  such  claim,  the  Prince  would — 

Valence.  Well,  sir — would  ? — 

Melchior.  Not  only  probably  withdraw  his  suit,  191 

But,  very  like,  the  lady  might  be  forced 
Accept  your  own.     Oh !  there  are  reasons  why  ! 
But  you  Ml  excuse  at  present  all  save  one — 

1  think  so.     What  we  want  is  your  own  witness 
For  or  against — her  good  or  yours :  decide  ! 


i8o  COLO  MB  PS  BIRTHDAY. 

Valence  [aside].     Be  it  her  good  if  she  accounts  it  so! — 
[After  a  contest]   For  what  am    I   but    hers,  to  choose   as 

she? 
Who  knows  how  far,  beside,  the  light  from  her 
May  reach,  and  dwell  with,  what  she  looks  upon  ?  3°° 

Melchior  [to  the  Prince].  Now  to  him,  you  ! 

Berthold  [to  Valence].  My  friend  acquaints  you,  sir, 

The  noise  runs — 

Valence.  Prince,  how  fortunate  you  are, 

Wedding  her  as  you  will,  in  spite  of  noise, 
To  show  belief  in  love  !     Let  her  but  love  you, 
All  else  you  disregard!     What  else  can  be? 
You  know  how  love  is  incompatible 
With  falsehood — purifies,  assimilates 
All  other  passions  to  itself.  , 

Melchior.  Ay,  sir  : 

But  softly  !     Where,  in  the  object  we  select, 
Such  love  is,  perchance,  wanting? 

Valence.  Then  indeed,  310 

What  is  it  you  can  take  ? 

Melchior.  Nay,  ask  the  world ! 

Youth,  beauty,  virtue,  an  illustrious  name, 
An  influence  o'er  mankind. 

Valence.  When  man  perceives — 

Ah  !  I  can  only  speak  as  for  myself! 

The  Duchess.  Speak  for  yourself! 

Valence.  May  I?— no,  I  have  spoken, 

And  time  's  gone  by.     Had  I  seen  such  an  one, 
As  I  loved  her — weighing  thoroughly  that  word — 
So  should  my  task  be  to  evolve  her  love ; 
If  for  myself! — if  for  another — well. 

Berthold.  Heroic,  truly !     And  your  sole  reward —          3*> 
The  secret  pride  in  yielding  up  love's  right? 

Valence.  Who  thought  upon  reward  ?     And  yet  how  much 
Comes  after — oh !  what  amplest  recompense  ! 


ACT  V.  181 

Is  the  knowledge  of  her  nought  ?  the  memory  nought  ? — 
Lady,  should  such  an  one  have  looked  on  you, 
Ne'er  wrong  yourself  so  far  as  quote  the  world 
And  say  love  can  go  unrequited  here ! 
You  will  have  blessed  him  to  his  whole  life's  end — 
Low  passions  hindered,  baser  cares  kept  back, 
All  goodness  cherished  where  you  dwelt — and  dwell.  330 

What  would  he  have  ?     He  holds  you — you,  both  form 
And  mind,  in  his — where  self-love  makes  such  room 
For  love  of  you,  he  would  not  serve  you  now 
The  vulgar  way — repulse  your  enemies, 
Win  you  new  realms,  or  best,  in  saving  old 
Die  blissfully — that 's  past  so  long  ago  ! 
He  wishes  you  no  need,  thought,  care  of  him — 
Your  good,  by  any  means,  himself  unseen, 
Away,  forgotten  ! — He  gives  that  life's  task  up, 
As  it  were — but  this  charge  which  I  return —  %*■* 

[  Offers  the  requisition,  which  she  takes. 
Wishing  your  good. 

The  Duchess  [having  subscribed  it\   And  opportunely,  sir — 
Since  at  a  birthday's  close,  like  this  of  mine, 
Good  wishes  gentle  deeds  reciprocate. 
Most  on  a  wedding-day,  as  mine  is  too, 
Should  gifts  be  thought  of:  yours  comes  first  by  right. 
Ask  of  me ! 

Berthold.     He  shall  have  whate'er  he  asks, 
For  your  sake  and  his  own. 

Valence  [aside].  If  I  should  ask — 

The  withered  bunch  of  flowers  she  wears — perhaps, 
One  last  touch  of  her  hand,  I  never  more 
Shall  see ! —     [After  a  pause,  presenting  his  paper  to  the  Prince. 
Cleves'  Prince,  redress  the  wrongs  of  Cleves  !   350 

Berthold.  I  will,  sir. 

The  Duchess  [as  Valence  prepares  to  retire].    Nay,  do  out 
your  duty  first ! 


^2  COLOMB&S  BIRTHDAY. 

You  bore  this  paper ;  I  have  registered 

My  answer  to  it :  read  it  and  have  done  !     [  Valence  reads  it. 

I  take  him — give  up  Juliers  and  the  world. 

This  is  my  Birthday. 

Melchior.  Berthold,  my  one  hero 

Of  the  world  she  gives  up,  one  friend  worth  my  books, 
Sole  man  I  think  it  pays  the  pains  to  watch — 
Speak,  for  I  know  you  through  your  Popes  and  Kings ! 

Berthold  [after  a  pause].  Lady,  well  rewarded !     Sir,  as 
well  deserved ! 
I  could  not  imitate — I  hardly  envy —  3&> 

I  do  admire  you.     All  is  for  the  best. 
Too  costly  a  flower  were  this,  I  see  it  now, 
To  pluck  and  set  upon  my  barren  helm 
To  wither — any  garish  plume  will  do. 
I  '11  not  insult  you  and  refuse  your  Duchy — 
You  can  so  well  afford  to  yield  it  me, 
And  I  were  left,  without  it,  sadly  off. 
As  it  is — for  me — if  that  will  flatter  you, 
A  somewhat  wearier  life  seems  to  remain 
Than  I  thought  possible  where —     Faith,  their  life  370 

Begins  already  !     They  're  too  occupied 
To  listen  ;  and  few  words  content  me  best. — 
[Abruptly  to  the  Courtiers]  I  am  your  Duke,  though  !     Who 
obey  me  here  ? 

The  Duchess.  Adolf  and  Sabyne,  follow  us — 

Guibert  [starting from  the  Courtiers].  And  I? 

Do  I  not  follow  them,  if  I  may  n't  you  ? 
Shall  not  I  get  some  little  duties  up 
At  Ravestein  and  emulate  the  rest  ? 
God  save  you,  Gaucelme  !     'T  is  my  Birthday,  too  ! 

Berthold.  You  happy  handful  that  remain  with  me — 
That  is,  with  Dietrich  the  black  Barnabite  380 

I  shall  leave  over  you — will  earn  your  wages, 
Or  Dietrich  has  forgot  to  ply  his  trade ! 


ACT  V. 


183 


Meantime — go  copy  me  the  precedents 
Of  every  installation,  proper  styles 
And  pedigrees  of  all  your  Juliers'  Dukes — 
While  I  prepare  to  plod  on  my  old  way, 
And  somewhat  wearily,  I  must  confess ! 

The  Duchess  [with  a  light  joyous  laugh  as  she  turns  from 
them].  Come,  Valence,  to  our  friends,  God's  earth — 

Valence  [as  she  falls  into  his  arms].  And  thee  ! 


A    SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 

ACT  FIRST, 

BEING   WHAT   WAS  CALLED  THE   POETRY  OF  CHIAPPINO'S   LIFE  ; 

AND  ACT  SECOND,  ITS  PROSE. 

London,  1846. 


Persons. 

Luitolfo  and  Eulalia,  betrothed  lovers. 
Chiappino,  their  friend. 
Ogniben,  the  Pope's  Legate. 
Citizens  of  Faenza. 

Place,  Faenza. 

Time,  15—. 


A    SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 


ACT  I. 
Inside  Luitolfo's  house.     Chiappino,  Eulalia. 

Eulalia.  What  is  it  keeps  Luitolfo?     Night 's  fast  falling, 
And  't  was  scarce  sunset — had  the  ave-bell 
Sounded  before  he  sought  the  Provost's  house  ? 
I  think  not :  all  he  had  to  say  would  take 
Few  minutes,  such  a  very  few,  to  say  ! 
How  do  you  think,  Chiappino?     If  our  lord 
The  Provost  were  less  friendly  to  your  friend 
Than  everybody  here  professes  him, 
I  should  begin  to  tremble — should  not  you  ? 
Why  are  you  silent  when  so  many  times  10 

I  turn  and  speak  to  you  ? 

Chiappino.  That 's  good  ! 

Eulalia.  You  laugh? 

Chiappino.  Yes.     I  had  fancied  nothing  that  bears  price 
In  the  whole  world  was  left  to  call  my  own ; 
And,  may  be,  felt  a  little  pride  thereat. 
Up  to  a  single  man's  or  woman's  love, 
Down  to  the  right  in  my  own  flesh  and  blood, 
There's  nothing  mine,  I  fancied — till  you  spoke  ; — 
Counting,  you  see,  as  '  nothing '  the  permission 
To  study  this  peculiar  lot  of  mine 

In  silence:  well,  go  silence  with  the  rest  ao 

Of  the  world's  good !     What  can  I  say,  shall  serve  ? 


,88  A   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 

Eulalia.  This — lest  you,  even  more  than  needs,  embitter 
Our  parting  :  say  your  wrongs  have  cast,  for  once, 
A  cloud  across  your  spirit! 

Chiappino.  How  a  cloud  ? 

Eulalia.  No  man  nor  woman  loves  you,  did  you  say? 

Chiappino.  My  God,  were  't  not  for  thee  ! 

Eulalia.  Ay,  God  remains, 

Even  did  men  forsake  you. 

Chiappino.  Oh,  not  so ! 

Were  't  not  for  God,  I  mean,  what  hope  of  truth — 
Speaking  truth,  hearing  truth,  would  stay  with  man  ? 
I  now — the  homeless,  friendless,  penniless,  3° 

Proscribed,  and  exiled  wretch  who  speak  to  you — 
Ought  to  speak  truth,  yet  could  not,  for  my  death — 
The  thing  that  tempts  me  most — help  speaking  lies 
About  your  friendship  and  Luitolfo's  courage 
And  all  our  townsfolk's  equanimity — 
Through  sheer  incompetence  to  rid  myself 
Of  the  old,  miserable,  lying  trick 
Caught  from  the  liars  I  have  lived  with — God, 
Did  I  not  turn  to  thee  !     It  is  thy  prompting 
I  dare  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  thy  counsel  40 

Would  die  along  my  coward  lip,  I  know. 
But  I  do  turn  to  thee.     This  craven  tongue, 
These  features  which  refuse  the  soul  its  way, 
Reclaim  thou  !     Give  me  truth — truth,  power  to  speak — 
And  after  be  sole  present  to  approve 
The  spoken  truth !     Or,  stay,  that  spoken  truth, 
Who  knows  but  you  too  may  approve  ? 

Eulalia.  Ah,  well — 

Keep  silence  then,  Chiappino  ! 

Chiappino.  You  would  hear, 

You  shall  now — why  the  thing  we  please  to  style 
My  gratitude  to  you  and  all  your  friends  so 

For  service  done  me,  is  just  gratitude 


ACT  I.  ^9 

So  much  as  yours  was  service — and  no  more. 
I  was  born  here,  so  was  Luitolfo ;  both 
At  one  time,  much  with  the  same  circumstance 
Of  rank  and  wealth  ;  and  both,  up  to  this  night 
Of  parting  company,  have  side  by  side 
Still  fared,  he  in  the  sunshine — I  the  shadow. 
'  Why  ?'  asks  the  world.     '  Because,'  replies  the  world 
To  its  complacent  self, '  these  playfellows, 
Who  took  at  church  the  holy-water  drop  <*> 

Each  from  the  other's  finger,  and  so  forth, 
Were  of  two  moods  :  Luitolfo  was  the  proper 
Friend-making,  everywhere  friend-finding  soul, 
Fit  for  the  sunshine,  so  it  followed  him. 
A  happy-tempered  bringer  of  the  best 
Out  of  the  worst ;  who  bears  with  what 's  past  cure, 
And  puts  so  good  a  face  on  't — wisely  passive 
Where  action  's  fruitless,  while  he  remedies 
In  silence  what  the  foolish  rail  against; 
A  man  to  smooth  such  natures  as  parade  7© 

Of  opposition  must  exasperate  ; 
No  general  gauntlet-gatherer  for  the  weak 
Against  the  strong,  yet  over-scrupulous 
At  lucky  junctures  ;  one  who  won't  forego 
The  after-battle  work  of  binding  wounds, 
Because,  forsooth,  he  'd  have  to  bring  himself 
To  side  with  wound-inflictors  for  their  leave !' — 
Why  do  you  gaze,  nor  help  me  to  repeat 
What  comes  so  glibly  from  the  common  mouth, 
About  Luitolfo  and  his  so-styled  friend  ?  80 

Eulalia.  Because  that  friend's  sense  is  obscured — 
Chiappino.  I  thought 

You  would  be  readier  with  the  other  half 
( >f  the  world's  story,  my  half!     Yet,  't  is  true, 
For  all  the  world  docs  say  it.     Say  your  worst ! 
True,  I  thank  God,  I  ever  said  'you  sin,' 


190 


A   SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 


When  a  man  did  sin  :  if  I  could  not  say  it, 

I  glared  it  at  him  ;  if  I  could  not  glare  it, 

I  prayed  against  him  ;  then  my  part  seemed  over. 

God's  may  begin  yet :  so  it  will,  I  trust. 

Eulalia.  If  the  world  outraged  you,  did  we  ? 

Chiappino.  What 's  '  me 

That  you  use  well  or  ill  ?     It 's  man,  in  me,  «v 

All  your  successes  are  an  outrage  to, 
You  all,  whom  sunshine  follows,  as  you  say! 
Here  's  our  Faenza  birthplace  ;  they  send  here 
A  provost  from  Ravenna  :  how  he  rules, 
You  can  at  times  be  eloquent  about. 
1  Then,  end  his  rule  P — '  Ah,  yes,  one  stroke  does  that  1 
But  patience  under  wrong  works  slow  and  sure. 
Must  violence  still  bring  peace  forth?     He,  beside, 
Returns  so  blandly  one's  obeisance  !  ah ! —  10 

Some  latent  virtue  may  be  lingering  yet, 
Some  human  sympathy  which,  once  excite, 
And  all  the  lump  were  leavened  quietly : 
So,  no  more  talk  of  striking,  for  this  time  !' 
But  I,  as  one  of  those  he  rules,  won't  bear 
These  pretty  takings-up  and  layings-down 
Our  cause,  just  as  you  think  occasion  suits. 
Enough  of  earnest,  is  there  ?     You  '11  play,  will  you  ? 
Diversify  your  tactics,  give  submission, 
Obsequiousness,  and  flattery  a  turn,  n 

While  we  die  in  our  misery  patient  deaths? 
We  all  are  outraged  then,  and  I  the  first : 
I,  for  mankind,  resent  each  shrug  and  smirk, 
Each  beck  and  bend,  each — all  you  do  and  are, 
I  hate ! 

Eulalia.  We  share  a  common  censure,  then. 
T  is  well  you  have  not  poor  Luitolfo's  part 
Nor  mine  to  point  out  in  the  wide  offence. 

Chiappino.  Oh !  shall  I  let  you  so  escape  me,  lady  ? 


ACT  I.  191 

Come,  on  your  own  ground,  lady — from  yourself — 

Leaving  the  people's  wrong,  which  most  is  mine —  120 

What  have  I  got  to  be  so  grateful  for  ? 

These  three  last  fines,  no  doubt,  one  on  the  other 

Paid  by  Luitolfo  ? 

Eulalia.  Shame,  Chiappino ! 

Chiappino.  Shame 

Fall  presently  on  who  deserves  it  most ! — 
Which  is  to  see.     He  paid  my  fines — my  friend, 
Your  prosperous  smooth  lover  presently, 
Then,  scarce  your  wooer — soon,  your  husband  :  well — 
I  loved  you. 

Eulalia.        Hold ! 

Chiappino.  You  knew  it,  years  ago. 

When  my  voice  faltered  and  my  eye  grew  dim 
Because  you  gave  me  your  silk  mask  to  hold —  ijo 

My  voice  that  greatens  when  there  's  need  to  curse 
The  people's  Provost  to  their  heart's  content — 
My  eye,  the  Provost,  who  bears  all  men's  eyes, 
Banishes  now  because  he  cannot  bear — 
You  knew — but  you  do  your  parts — my  part,  I : 
So  be  it !     You  flourish,  I  decay  :  all 's  well. 

Eulalia.  I  hear  this  for  the  first  time. 

Chiappino.  The  fault 's  there  ? 

Then  my  days  spoke  not,  and  my  nights  of  fire 
Were  voiceless?     Then  the  very  heart  may  burst, 
Yet  all  prove  nought,  because  no  mincing  speech  140 

Tells  leisurely  that  thus  it  is  and  thus? 
Eulalia,  truce  with  toying  for  this  once  ! 
A  banished  fool,  who  troubles  you  to-night 
For  the  last  time — why,  what 's  to  fear  from  me  ? 
You  knew  I  loved  you ! 

Eulalia.  Not  so,  on  my  faith  ! 

You  were  my  now-affianced  lover's  friend — 
Came  in,  went  out  with  him,  could  speak  as  he. 


192 


A   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 


All  praise  your  ready  parts  and  pregnant  wit; 

See  how  your  words  come  from  you  in  a  crowd! 

Luitolfo's  first  to  place  you  o'er  himself  »so 

In  all  that  challenges  respect  and  love, 

Yet  you  were  silent  then,  who  blame  me  now. 

I  say  all  this  by  fascination,  sure  : 

I  am  all  but  wed  to  one  I  love,  yet  listen  ! 

It  must  be,  you  are  wronged,  and  that  the  wrongs 

Luitolfo  pities — 

Chiappino.       You  too  pity  ?     Do ! 
But  hear  first  what  my  wrongs  are  ;  so  began 
This  talk  and  so  shall  end  this  talk.     I  say, 
Was  't  not  enough  that  I  must  strive — I  saw — 
To  grow  so  far  familiar  with  your  charms  160 

As  next  contrive  some  way  to  win  them — which 
To  do,  an  age  seemed  far  too  little — for,  see ! 
We  all  aspire  to  heaven  ;  and  there  is  heaven 
Above  us  :  go  there  !     Dare  we  go?  no,  surely! 
How  dare  we  go  without  a  reverent  pause, 
A  growing  less  unfit  for  heaven  ?     Even  so, 
I  dared  not  speak  :  the  greater  fool,  it  seems ! 
Was  't  not  enough  to  struggle  with  such  folly, 
But  I  must  have,  beside,  the  very  man 

Whose  slight,  free,  loose,  and  incapacious  soul  17c 

Gave  his  tongue  scope  to  say  whate'er  he  would — 
Must  have  him  load  me  with  his  benefits 
For  fortune's  fiercest  stroke  ? 

Eulalia.  Justice  to  him 

That 's  now  entreating,  at  his  risk  perhaps, 
Justice  for  you  •!     Did  he  once  call  those  acts 
Of  simple  friendship — bounties,  benefits? 

Chiappino.  No :  the  straight  course  had  been  to  call  them  so. 
Then,  I  had  flung  them  back,  and  kept  myself 
Unhampered,  free  as  he  to  win  the  prize 
We  both  sought.     But  '  the  gold  was  dross,'  he  said  :  180 


ACT  I. 


193 


'  He  loved  me,  and  I  loved  him  not :  why  spurn 

A  trifle  out  of  superfluity? 

He  had  forgotten  he  had  done  as  much.' 

So  had  not  I !     Henceforth,  try  as  I  could 

To  take  him  at  his  word,  there  stood  by  you 

My  benefactor ;  who  might  speak  and  laugh 

And  urge  his  nothings,  even  banter  me 

Before  you — but  my  tongue  was  tied.     A  dream  1 

Let 's  wake  :  your  husband — how  you  shake  at  that ! 

Good — my  revenge  ! 

Ettlalia.  Why  should  I  shake  ?  What  forced    190 

Or  forces  me  to  be  Luitolfo's  bride  ? 

Chiappino.  There  's  my  revenge,  that  nothing  forces  you. 
No  gratitude,  no  liking  of  the  eye 
Nor  longing  of  the  heart,  but  the  poor  bond 
Of  habit — here  so  many  times  he  came, 
So  much  he  spoke — all  these  compose  the  tie 
That  pulls  you  from  me.     Well,  he  paid  my  fines, 
Nor  missed  a  cloak  from  wardrobe,  dish  from  table ; 
He  spoke  a  good  word  to  the  Provost  here, 
Held  me  up  when  my  fortunes  fell  away —  200 

It  had  not  looked  so  well  to  let  me  drop — 
Men  take  pains  to  preserve  a  tree-stump,  even, 
Whose  boughs  they  played  beneath — much  more  a  friend. 
But  one'grows  tired  of  seeing,  after  the  first, 
Pains  spent  upon  impracticable  stuff 
Like  me.     I  could  not  change :  you  know  the  rest. 
I  've  spoke  my  mind  too  fully  out,  by  chance, 
This  morning  to  our  Provost ;  so  ere  night 
I  leave  the  city  on  pain  ef  death.     And  now 
On  my  account  there  's  gallant  intercession  »io 

Goes  forward — that 's  so  graceful  ;  and  anon 
He  Ml  noisily  come  back  :  ■  the  intercession 
Was  made  and  fails  ;  all  's  over  for  us  both  ; 
'T  is  vain  contending ;  I  would  better  go.' 
'3 


194 


A   SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 


And  T  do  go — and  straight  to  you  he  turns 

Light  of  a  load  ;  and  ease  of  that  permits 

His  visage  to  repair  the  natural  bland 

(Economy,  sore  broken  late  to  suit 

My  discontent.     Thus,  all  are  pleased — you  with  him, 

He  with  himself,  and  all  of  you  with  me —  330 

'  Who,'  say  the  citizens,  'had  done  far  better 

In  letting  people  sleep  upon  their  woes, 

If  not  possessed  with  talent  to  relieve  them 

When  once  awake  ;  but  then  I  had,'  they  '11  say, 

1  Doubtless  some  unknown  compensating  pride 

In  what  I  did  ;  and  as  I  seem  content 

With  ruining  myself,  why,  so  should  they  be.' 

And  so  they  are,  and  so  be  with  his  prize 

The  devil,  when  he  gets  them  speedily  ! 

Why  does  not  your  Luitolfo  come  ?     I  long  23° 

To  don  this  cloak  and  take  the  Lugo  path. 

It  seems  you  never  loved  me,  then  ? 

Eulalia.  Chiappino ! 

Chiappino.  Never? 

Eulalia.  Never. 

Chiappino.  That 's  sad.     Say  what  I  might, 

There  was  no  help  from  being  sure  this  while 
You  loved  me.     Love  like  mine  must  have  return, 
I  thought :  no  river  starts  but  to  some  sea. 
And  had  you  loved  me,  I  could  soon  devise 
Some  specious  reason  why  you  stifled  love, 
Some  fancied  self-denial  on  your  part, 

Which  made  you  choose  Luitolfo  ;  so  excepting  240 

From  the  wide  condemnation  of  all  here 
One  woman.     Well,  the  other  dream  may  break ! 
If  I  knew  any  heart,  as  mine  loved  you, 
Loved  me,  though  in  the  vilest  breast 't  were  lodged, 
I  should,  I  think,  be  forced  to  love  again  : 
Else  there  's  no  right  nor  reason  in  the  world. 


ACT  I. 


195 


Eulalia.  'If  you  knew,'  say  you — but  I  did  not  know. 
That 's  where  you  're  blind,  Chiappino  ! — a  disease 
Which  if  I  may  remove,  I  '11  not  repent 
The  listening  to.     You  cannot,  will  not,  see  250 

How,  place  you  but  in  every  circumstance 
Of  us  you  are  just  now  indignant  at, 
You  'd  be  as  we. 

Chiappino.  I  should  be? — that  again  ! 

I,  to  my  friend,  my  country,  and  my  love, 
Be  as  Luitolfo  and  these  Faentines? 

Eulalia.  As  we. 

Chiappino.  Now,  I  '11  say  something  to  remember ! 

I  trust  in  nature  for  the  stable  laws 
Of  beauty  and  utility — Spring  shall  plant, 
And  Autumn  garner  to  the  end  of  time  : 
I  trust  in  God — the  right  shall  be  the  right  =60 

And  other  than  the  wrong,  while  he  endures  : 
I  trust  in  my  own  soul,  that  can  perceive 
The  outward  and  the  inward,  nature's  good 
And  God's:  so,  seeing  these  men  and  myself, 
Having  a  right  to  speak,  thus  do  I  speak. — 
I  '11  not  curse— God  bears  with  them,  well  may  I — 
But  I — protest  against  their  claiming  me. 
I  simply  say,  if  that's  allowable, 
I  would  not — broadly — do  as  they  have  done. 
God  curse  this  townful  of  born  slaves,  bred  slaves,  27 

Branded  into  the  blood  and  bone,  slaves  !     Curse 
Whoever  loves,  above  his  liberty, 
House,  land,  or  life!  and  —  [a  knocking  without]  bless    ny 

hero-friend, 
Luitolfo! 

Eulalia.   How  he  knocks  ! 

Chiappino.  The  peril,  lady  ! 

'  Chiappino,  I  have  run  a  risk — a  risk  ! 
For  when  I  prayed  the  Provost — he  's  my  friend — 


l96  A   SOULS    TRAGEDY. 

To  grant  you  a  week's  respite  of  the  sentence 
That  confiscates  your  goods,  exiles  yourself, 
He  shrugged  his  shoulder — I  say,  shrugged  it !     Yes, 
And  fright  of  that  drove  all  else  from  my  head.  280 

Here  's  a  good  purse  of  scudi :  off  with  you, 
Lest  of  that  shrug  come  what  God  only  knows  ! 
The  scudi—fi\end,  they  're  trash — no  thanks,  I  beg! 
Take  the  north  gate — for  San  Vitale's  suburb, 
Whose  double  taxes  you  appealed  against, 
In  discomposure  at  your  ill-success 
Is  apt  to  stone  you  :  there,  there — only  go  ! 
Beside,  Eulalia  here  looks  sleepily. 
Shake — oh  !  you  hurt  me,  so  you  squeeze  my  wrist !' — 
Is  it  not  thus  you  '11  speak,  adventurous  friend  ?  290 

\As  he  opens  the  door,  Luitolfo  rushes  in,  his  garments 
disordered. 

Eulalia.  Luitolfo  !  Blood  ? 

Luitolfo.  There  's  more — and  more  of  it ! 

Eulalia — take  the  garment !     No — you,  friend  ! 
You  take  it  and  the  blood  from  me — you  dare  ! 

Eulalia.  Oh  !  who  har>  hurt  you  ?  where  's  the  wound  ? 

Chiappino.  '  Who,'  say  you  ? 

The  man  with  many  a  touch  of  virtue  yet ! 
The  Provost's  friend  has  proved  too  frank  of  speech, 
And  this  comes  of  it.     Miserable  hound  ! 
This  comes  of  temporizing,  as  I  said! 
Here  's  fruit  of  your  smooth  speeches  and  soft  looks ! 
Now  see  my  way  !     As  God  lives,  I  go  straight  300 

To  the  palace  and  do  justice,  once  for  all ! 

Luitolfo.  What  says  he  ? 

Chiappino.  I  '11  do  justice  on  him. 

Luitolfo.  Him  ? 

Chiappino.  The  Provost. 

Luitolfo.  I  ve  just  killed  him. 

Eulalia.  Oh  !  my  God  ! 


ACT  I. 


197 


Luitolfo.  My  friend,  they  're  on  my  trace  ;  they  '11  have 
me — now ! 
They  're  round  him,  busy  with  him  :  soon  they  '11  find 
He  's  past  their  help,  and  then  they  '11  be  on  me ! 
Chiappino,  save  Eulalia  !  I  forget — 
Were  you  not  bound  for — 

Chiappino.  Lugo  ? 

Luitolfo.  Ah! — yes — yes! 

That  was  the  point  I  prayed  of  him  to  change. 
Well,  go — be  happy !     Is  Eulalia  safe  ?  31° 

They  're  on  me  ! 

Chiappino.  'T  is  through  me  they  reach  you,  then  ! 

Friend,    seem    the    man    you    are!     Lock    arms  —  that   's 

right ! 
Now  tell  me  what  you  've  done  ;  explain  how  you 
That  still  professed  forbearance,  still  preached  peace, 
Could  bring  yoursejf — 

Luitolfo.  What  was  peace  for,  Chiappino  ? 

I  tried  peace:  did  that  promise,  when  peace  failed, 
Strife  should  not  follow  ?     All  my  peaceful  days 
Were  just  the  prelude  to  a  day  like  this. 
I  cried  'You  call  me  "friend  :"  save  my  true  friend  ! 
Save  him,  or  lose  me  !' 

Chiappino.  But  you  never  said  3*> 

You  meant  to  tell  the  Provost  thus  and  thus. 

Luitolfo.  Why  should  I  say  it?     What  else  did  I  mean  ? 

Chiappino.  Well  ?     He  persisted  ? — 

Luitolfo.  '  Would  so  order  it 

You  should  not  trouble  him  too  soon  again.' 
I  saw  a  meaning  in  his  eye  and  lip ; 
I  poured  my  heart's  store  of  indignant  words 
Out  on  him  ;  then — I  know  not !     He  retorted, 
And  I — some  staff  lay  there  to  hand — I  think 
He  bade  his  servants  thrust  me  out — I  struck — 
Ah,  they  come  !     Fly  you,  save  yourselves,  you  two !  330 


198  A   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 

The  dead  back-weight  of  the  beheading  axe  ! 
The  glowing  trip-hook,  thumbscrews,  and  the  gadge  ! 
•     Eulalia.  They  do  come  !    Torches  in  the  place  !    Farewell, 
Chiappino!     You  can  work  no  good  to  us — 
Much  to  yourself;  believe  not,  all  the  world 
Must  needs  be  cursed  henceforth  ! 

Chiappino.  And  you  ? 

Eulalia.  I  stay. 

Chiappino.  Ha,  ha  !     Now,  listen  !     I  am  master  here  ! 
This  was  my  coarse  disguise  ;  this  paper  shows 
My  path  of  flight  and  place  of  refuge — see — 
Lugo,  Argenta,  past  San  Nicolo,  340 

Ferrara,  then  to  Venice  and  all  's  safe! 
Put  on  the  cloak !     His  people  have  to  fetch 
A  compass  round  about.     There  's  time  enough 
Ere  they  can  reach  us,  so  you  straightway  make 
For  Lugo — nay,  he  hears  not!     On  with  it — 
The  cloak,  Luitolfo,  do  you  hear  me  ?     See — 
He  obeys  he  knows  not  how.     Then,  if  I  must — 
Answer  me  !     Do  you  know  the  Lugo  gate  ? 

Eulalia.  The  northwest  gate,  over  the  bridge  ? 

Luitolfo.  I  know. 

Chiappino.  Well,  there  —  you  are  not  frightened?  all  my 
route  350 

Is  traced  in  that ;  at  Venice  you  escape 
Their  power. — Eulalia,  I  am  master  here  ! 

[Shouts  front  without.     He  pushes  out  Luitolfo,  who 
complies  mechanically. 
In  time  !     Nay,  help  me  with  him — so  !     He  's  gone. 

Eulalia.  What  have  you  clone  ?     On  you,  perchance,  all 
know 
The  Provost's  hater,  will  men's  vengeance  fall 
As  our  accomplice. 

Chiappino.  Mere  accomplice  ?     See! 

[Putting  on  Luitolfo's  vest. 


ACT  I. 


199 


Now,  lady,  am  I  true  to  my  profession, 
Or  one  of  these  ? 

Eulalia.  You  take  Luitolfo's  place  ? 

Chiappino.  Die  for  him. 

Eulalia.  Well  done !  [Shouts  increase. 

Chiappino.  How  the  people  tarry  ! 

I  can't  be  silent :  I  must  speak  ;  or  sing —  360 

How  natural  to  sing  now  ! 

Eulalia.  Hush  and  pray ! 

We  are  to  die ;  but  even  I  perceive 
T  is  not  a  very  hard  thing  so  to  die. 
My  cousin  of  the  pale-blue  tearful  eyes, 
Poor  Cesca,  suffers  more  from  one  day's  life 
With  the  stern  husband  ;  Tisbe's  heart  goes  forth 
Each  evening  after  that  wild  son  of  hers, 
To  track  his  thoughtless  footstep  through  the  streets : 
How  easy  for  them  both  to  die  like  this ! 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  could  live  as  they.  370 

Chiappino.  Here  they  come,  crowds.    They  pass  the  gate? 
Yes !— No ! 
One  torch  is  in  the  courtyard.     Here  flock  all. 

Eulalia.  At  least  Luitolfo  has  escaped.     What  cries  ! 

Chiappino.  If  they  would  drag  one  to  the  market-place, 
One  might  speak  there  ! 

Eulalia.  List,  list ! 

Chiappino.  They  mount  the  steps. 

Enter  the  Populace. 

Chiappino.   I  killed  the  Provost ! 

The  Populace  [speaking  together].  'T  was  Chiappino,  friends ! 
Our  saviour !     The  best  man  at  last  as  first ! 
II'-  who  first  made  us  feel  what  chains  we  wore, 
He  also  strikes  the  blow  that  shatters  them, 
He  at  last  saws  us — our  best  citizen  ! —  380 

<  »li !  have  you  only  courage  to  speak  now  ? 


200  A   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 

My  eldest  son  was  christened  a  year  since 

'Cino'  to  keep  Chiappino's  narne  in  mind— ■ 

Cino,  for  shortness  merely,  you  observe  ! 

The  city  's  in  our  hands.     The  guards  are  fled. 

Do  you,  the  cause  of  all,  come  down — come  up — 

Come  out  to  counsel  us,  our  chief,  our  king, 

Whate'er  rewards  you  !     Choose  your  own  reward* 

The  peril  over,  its  reward  begins ! 

Come  and  harangue  us  in  the  market-place !  39« 

Eulalia.  Chiappino? 

Chiappino.  Yes — I  understand  your  eyes ! 

You  think  I  should  have  promptlier  disowned 
This  deed  with  its  strange  unforeseen  success, 
In  favor  of  Luitolfo.     But  the  peril, 
So  far  from  ended,  hardly  seems  begun. 
To-morrow,  rather,  when  a  calm  succeeds, 
We  easily  shall  make  him  full  amends ; 
And  meantime — if  we  save  them  as  they  pray, 
And  justify  the  deed  by  its  effects? 

Eulalia.  You  would,  for  worlds,  you  had  denied  at  once.  4<» 

Chiappino.  I  know  my  own  intention,  be  assured  ! 
All 's  well. — Precede  us,  fellow-citizens ! 


ACT  II. 


ACT  II. 

The  Market-place.     Luitolfo  in  disguise  mingling  with  the 
Populace  assembled  opposite  the  Provost's  Palace. 

i  Bystander  (to  Luitolfo).  You,  a  friend  of  Luitolfo's? 
Then,  your  friend  is  vanished — in  all  probability  killed  on 
the  night  that  his  patron  the  tyrannical  Provost  was  loyally 
suppressed  here,  exactly  a  month  ago,  by  our  illustrious  fel- 
low-citizen, thrice-noble  saviour,  and  new  Provost  that  is  like 
to  be,  this  very  morning — Chiappino! 

Luitolfo.  He  the  new  Provost? 

2  Bystander.  Up  those  steps  will  he  go,  and  beneath  yon- 
der pillar  stand,  while  Ogniben,  the  Pope's  Legate  from  Ra-' 
venna,  reads  the  new  dignitary's  title  to  the  people,  accord- 
ing to  established  custom  ;  for  which  reason,  there  is  the 
assemblage  you  inquire  about.  12 

Luitolfo.  Chiappino— the  late  Provost's  successor?  Im- 
possible !  But  tell  me  of  that  presently.  What  I  would 
know  first  of  all  is,  wherefore  Luitolfo  must  so  necessarily 
have  been  killed  on  that  memorable  night  ? 

3  Bystander.  You  were  Luitolfo's  friend  ?  So  was  I.  Nev- 
er, if  you  will  credit  me,  did  there  exist  so  poor-spirited  a 
milksop.  He,  with  all  the  opportunities  in  the  world  fur- 
nished by  daily  converse  with  our  oppressor,  would  not  stir  a 
finger  to  help  us;  and  when  Chiappino  rose  in  solitary  maj- 
esty and — how  does  one  go  on  saying? — dealt  the  godlike 
blow — this  Luitolfo,  not  unreasonably  fearing  the  indignation 
of  an  aroused  and  liberated  people,  Hod  precipitately.  He 
may  have  got  trodden  to  death  in  the  press  at  the  southeast 


202  *  SOULS    TRAGEDY. 

gate,  when  the  Provost's  guards  fled  through  it  to  Ravenna 
with  their  wounded  master — if  he  did  not  rather  hang  him- 
self under  some  hedge.  »8 

Luilolfo.  Or  why  not  simply  have  lain  perdue  in  some 
quiet  corner — such  as  San  Cassiano,  where  his  estate  was — 
receiving  daily  intelligence  from  some  sure  friend,  meanwhile, 
as  to  the  turn  matters  were  taking  here — how,  for  instance, 
the  Provost  was  not  dead,  after  all,  only  wounded — or,  as  to- 
day's news  would  seem  to  prove,  how  Chiappino  was  not 
Brutus  the  Elder,  after  all,  only  the  new  Provost — and  thus 
Luitolfo  be  enabled  to  watch  a  favorable  opportunity  for  re- 
turning?    Might  it  not  have  been  so?  37 

3  Bystander.  Why,  he  may  have  taken  that  care  of  him- 
self, certainly,  for  he  came  of  a  cautious  stock.  I  '11  tell  you 
how  his  uncle,  just  such  another  gingerly  treader  on  tip- 
toes with  finger  on  lip — how  he  met  his  death  in  the  great 
plague-year :  dico  vobis  !  Hearing  that  the  seventeenth  house 
in  a  certain  street  was  infected,  he  calculates  to  pass  it  in 
safety  by  taking  plentiful  breath,  say,  when  he  shall  arrive  at 
the  eleventh  house  ;  then  scouring  by,  holding  that  breath, 
till  he  be  got  so  far  on  the  other  side  as  number  twenty- 
three,  and  thus  elude  the  danger. — And  so  did  he  begin  ; 
but,  as  he  arrived  at  thirteen,  we  will  say — thinking  to  im- 
prove on  his  precaution  by  putting  up  a  little  prayer  to  St. 
Nepomucene  of  Prague,  this  exhausted  so  much  of  his  lungs' 
reserve,  that  at  sixteen  it  was  clean  spent — consequently  at 
the  fatal  seventeen  he  inhaled  with  a  vigor  and  persistence 
enough  to  suck  you  any  latent  venom  out  of  the  heart  of  a 
stone — Ha,  ha!  54 

Luitolfo  [aside].  If  I  had  not  lent  that  man  the  money  he 
wanted  last  spring,  I  should  fear  this  bitterness  was  attribu- 
table to  me.  —  Luitolfo  is  dead  then,  one  may  conclude? 

3  Bystander.  Why,  he  had  a  house  here,  and  a  woman  to 
whom  he  was  affianced  ;  and  as  they  both  pass  naturally  to 
the  new  Provost,  his  friend  and  heir — 


ACT  II. 


203 


Lnitolfo.  Ah !  I  suspected  you  of  imposing  on  me  with  your 
pleasantry!     I  know  Cbiappino  better.  62 

1  Bystander  [aside].  Our  friend  has  the  bile  !  After  all,  I  do 
not  dislike  finding  somebody  vary  a  little  this  general  gape 
of  admiration  at  Chiappino's  glorious  qualities. — Pray,  how 
much  may  you  know  of  what  has  taken  place  in  Faenza 
since  that  memorable  night? 

Lnitolfo.  It  is  most  to  the  purpose  that  I  know  Chiappino 
to  have  been  by  profession  a  hater  of  that  very  office  of  Pro- 
vost you  now  charge  him  with  proposing  to  accept.  7° 

1  Bystander.  Sir,  I  '11  tell  you.  That  night  was  indeed 
memorable.  Up  we  rose,  a  mass  of  us,  men,  women,  chil- 
dren ;  out  fled  the  guards  with  the  body  of  the  tyrant ;  we 
were  to  defy  the  world:  but,  next  gray  morning,  'What  will 
Rome  say?'  began  everybody.  You  know  we  are  governed 
by  Ravenna,  which  is  governed  by  Rome.  And  quietly  into 
the  town,  by  the  Ravenna  road,  comes  on  mule-back  a  portly 
personage,  Ogniben  by  name,  with  the  quality  of  Pontifical 
Legate  ;  trots  briskly  through  the  streets  humming  a  '  Cur 
fremuere  gen/es,'  and  makes  directly  for  the  Provost's  Pal- 
ace— there  it  faces  you.  '  One  Messer  Chiappino  is  your 
leader?  I  have  known  three-and-twenty  leaders  of  revolts!' 
— laughing  gently  to  himself — '  Give  me  the  help  of  your  arm 
from  my  mule  to  yonder  steps  under  the  pillar — So !  And 
now,  my  revolters  and  good  friends,  what  do  you  want  ?  The 
guards  burst  into  Ravenna  last  night  bearing  your  wounded 
Provost ;  and,  having  had  a  little  talk  with  him,  I  take  on 
myself  to  come  and  try  appease  the  disorderliness,  before 
Rome,  hearing  of  it,  resort  to  another  method  :  't  is  I  come, 
and  not  another,  from  a  certain  love  I  confess  to,  of  compos- 
ing differences.  So,  do  you  understand,  you  are  about  to 
experience  this  unheard-of  tyranny  from  me,  that  there  shall 
be  no  heading  nor  hanging,  no  confiscation  nor  exile  :  I  insist 
on  your  simply  pleasing  yourselves.  And  now,  pray,  what 
does  please  you  ?     To  live  without  any  government  at  all  ? 


204  A  SOUL'S  TRAGEDY. 

Or  having  decided  for  one,  to  see  its  minister  murdered  by 
the  first  of  your  body  that  chooses  to  find  himself  wronged, 
or  disposed  for  reverting  to  first  principles  and  a  justice  an 
terior  to  all  institutions — and  so  will  you  carry  matters  that 
the  rest  of  the  world  must  at  length  unite  and  put  down  such 
a  den  of  wild  beasts?  As  for  vengeance  on  what  has  just 
taken  place — once  for  all,  the  wounded  man  assures  me  he 
cannot  conjecture  who  struck  him  ;  and  this  so  earnestly 
that  one  may  be  sure  he  knows  perfectly  well  what  intimate 
acquaintance  could  find  admission  to  speak  with  him  late 
last  evening.  I  come  not  for  vengeance  therefore,  but  from 
pure  curiosity  to  hear  what  you  will  do  next.'  And  thus  he 
ran  on,  on,  easily  and  volubly,  till  he  seemed  to  arrive  quite 
naturally  at  the  praise  of  law,  order,  and  paternal  government 
by  somebody  from  rather  a  distance.  All  our  citizens  were 
in  the  snare,  and  about  to  be  friends  with  so  congenial  an 
adviser;  but  that  Chiappino  suddenly  stood  forth,  spoke  out 
indignantly,  and  set  things  right  again.  113 

Luitolfo.  Do  you  see  ?     I  recognize  him  there  ! 

3  Bystander.  Ay,  but,  mark  you,  at  the  end  of  Chiappino's 
longest  period  in  praise  of  a  pure  republic — '  And  by  whom 
do  I  desire  such  a  government  should  be  administered,  per- 
haps, but  by  one  like  yourself?' — returns  the  Legate  ;  there- 
upon speaking  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together,  on  the  nat- 
ural and  only  legitimate  government  by  the  best  and  wisest. 
And  it  should  seem  there  was  soon  discovered  to  be  no  such 
vast  discrepancy  at  bottom  between  this  and  Chiappino's 
theory,  place  but  each  in  its  proper  light.  '  Oh  !  are  you 
there?'  quoth  Chiappino:  'Ay,  in  that,  I  agree,'  returns  Chi- 
appino :  and  so  on.  125 

Luitolfo.  But  did  Chinppino  cede  at  once  to  this? 

1  Bystander.  Why,  not  altogether  at  once.  For  instance, 
he  said  that  the  difference  between  him  and  all  his  fellows 
was,  that  they  seemed  all  wishing  to  be  kings  in  one  or  an- 
other way — '  whereas  what  right,'  asked  he, '  has  any  man  to 


ACT  II.  205 

wish  to  be  superior  to  another  ?' — whereat, '  Ah,  sir,'  answers 
the  Legate,  '  this  is  the  death  of  me,  so  often  as  I  expect 
something  is  really  going  to  be  revealed  to  us  by  you  clearer- 
seers,  deeper-thinkers — this — that  your  right-hand — to  speak 
by  a  figure — should  be  found  taking  up  the  weapon  it  dis- 
played so  ostentatiously,  not  to  destroy  any  dragon  in  our 
path,  as  was  prophesied,  but  simply  to  cut  off  its  own  fellow 
left-hand;  yourself  set  about  attacking  yourself.  For  see 
now!  Here  are  you  who,  I  make  sure,  glory  exceedingly  in 
knowing  the  noble  nature  of  the  soul,  its  divine  impulses, 
and  so  forth ;  and  with  such  a  knowledge  you  stand,  as  it 
were,  armed  to  encounter  the  natural  doubts  and  fears  as  to 
that  same  inherent  nobility  which  are  apt  to  waylay  us,  the 
weaker  ones,  in  the  road  of  life.  And  when  we  look  eagerly 
to  see  them  fall  before  you,  lo,  round  you  wheel,  only  the  left- 
hand  gets  the  blow;  one  proof  of  the  soul's  nobility  destroys 
simply  another  proof,  quite  as  good,  of  the  same,  for  you  are 
found  delivering  an  opinion  like  this !  Why,  what  is  this 
perpetual  yearning  to  exceed,  to  subdue,  to  be  better  than, 
and  a  king  over,  one's  fellows — all  that  you  so  disclaim — but 
the  very  tendency  yourself  are  most  proud  of,  and  under  an- 
other form,  would  oppose  to  it — only  in  a  lower  stage  of  man- 
ifestation ?  You  don't  want  to  be  vulgarly  superior  to  your 
fellows  after  their  poor  fashion — to  have  me  hold  solemnly 
up  your  gown's  tail,  or  hand  you  an  express  of  the  last  im- 
portance from  the  Pope,  with  all  these  bystanders  noticing 
how  unconcerned  you  look  the  while  ;  but  neither  does  our 
gaping  friend,  the  burgess  yonder,  want  the  other  kind  of 
kingship,  that  consists  in  understanding  better  than  his  fel- 
lows this  and  similar  points  of  human  nature,  nor  to  roll  un- 
der his  tongue  this  sweeter  morsel  still — the  feeling  that, 
through  immense  philosophy,  he  does  not  feel,  he  rather 
thinks,  above  you  and  me!'  And  so  chatting,  they  glided 
off  arm  inarm.  164 

I.ui/o/Jo.  And  the  result  is — 


206  A   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 

i  Bystander.  Why  that,  a  month  having  gone  by,  the  indom- 
itable Chiappino,  marrying  as  he  will  Luitolfo's  love— at  all 
events  succeeding  to  Luitolfo's  wealth — becomes  the  first  in- 
habitant of  Faenza,  and  a  proper  aspirant  to  the  Provostship  ; 
which  we  assemble  here  to  see  conferred  on  him  this  morning. 
The  Legate's  Guard  to  clear  the  way !  He  will  follow  presently. 

Luitolfo  \unthdrawing  a  little].  I  understand  the  drift  of 
Eulalia's  communications  less  than  ever.  Yet  she  surely 
said,  in  so  many  words,  that  Chiappino  was  in  urgent  danger  : 
wherefore,  disregarding  her  injunction  to  continue  in  my  re- 
treat and  await  the  result  of,  what  she  called,  some  experi- 
ment yet  in  process — I  hastened  here  without  her  leave  or 
knowledge  :  what  could  I  else  ?  But  if  this  they  say  be  true 
— if  it  were  for  such  a  purpose,  she  and  Chiappino  kept  me 
away —  Oh,  no,  no !  I  must  confront  him  and  her  before 
I  believe  this  of  them.     And  at  the  word,  see  !  181 

Enter  Chiappino  and  Eulalia. 

Eulalia.  We  part  here,  then  ?  The  change  in  your  prin- 
ciples would  seem  to  be  complete. 

Chiappino.  Now,  why  refuse  to  see  that  in  my  present 
course  I  change  no  principles,  only  re-adapt  them  and  more 
adroitly?  I  had  despaired  of  what  you  may  call  the  mate- 
rial instrumentality  of  life,  of  ever  being  able  to  rightly  op- 
erate on  mankind  through  such  a  deranged  machinery  as  the 
existing  modes  of  government ;  but  now,  if  I  suddenly  dis- 
cover how  to  inform  these  perverted  institutions  with  fresh 
purpose,  bring  the  functionary  limbs  once  more  into  imme- 
diate communication  with,  and  subjection  to,  the  soul  I  am 
about  to  bestow  on  them — do  you  see?  Why  should  one 
desire  to  invent,  as  long  as  it  remains  possible  to  renew  and 
transform  ?  When  all  further  hope  of  the  old  organization 
shall  be  extinct,  then,  I  grant  you,  it  may  be  time  to  try  and 
create  another.  197 

Eulalia.  And  there  being  discoverable  some  hope  yet  in 


v 


ACT  //. 


207 


(he  hitherto  much-abused  old  system  of  absolute  government 
by  a  Provost  here,  you  mean  to  take  your  time  about  en- 
deavoring to  realize  those  visions  of  a  perfect  State  we  once 
heard  of?  202 

Chiappino.  Say,  I  would  fain  realize  my  conception  of  a 
palace,  for  instance,  and  that  there  is,  abstractedly,  but  a  sin- 
gle way  of  erecting  one  perfectly.  Here,  in  the  market-place 
is  my  allotted  building-ground  ;  here  I  stand  without  a  stone 
to  lay,  or  a  laborer  to  help  me — stand,  too,  during  a  short 
day  of  life,  close  on  which  the  night  comes.  On  the  other 
hand,  circumstances  suddenly  offer  me — turn  and  see  it — the 
old  Provost's  house  to  experiment  upon  —  ruinous,  if  you 
please,  wrongly  constructed  at  the  beginning,  and  ready  to 
tumble  now.  But  materials  abound,  a  crowd  of  workmen 
offer  their  services ;  here  exists  yet  a  hall  of  audience  of 
originally  noble  proportions,  there  a  guest-chamber  of  sym- 
metrical design  enough  :  and  I  may  restore,  enlarge,  abolish, 
or  unite  these  to  heart's  content.  Ought  I  not  make  the 
best  of  such  an  opportunity,  rather  than  continue  to  gaze  dis- 
consolately with  folded  arms  on  the  flat  pavement  here, 
while  the  sun  goes  slowly  down,  never  to  rise  again  ?  Since 
you  cannot  understand  this  nor  me,  it  is  better  we  should 
part  as  you  desire.  221 

Eulalia.  So,  the  love  breaks  away  too ! 

Chiappino.  No,  rather  my  soul's  capacity  for  love  widens — 
needs  more  than  one  object  to  content'it — and,  being  better 
instructed,  will  not  persist  in  seeing  all  the  component  parts 
of  love  in  what  is  only  a  single  part — nor  in  finding  that  so 
many  and  so  various  loves  are  all  united  in  the  love  of  a 
woman — manifold  uses  in  one  instrument,  as  the  savage  has 
his  sword,  sceptre,  and  idol,  all  in  one  club-stick.  Love  is  a 
very  compound  thing.  The  intellectual  part  of  my  love  I 
shall  give  to  men,  the  mighty  dead  or  the  illustrious  living, 
and  determine  to  call  a  mere  sensual  instinct  by  as  few  fine 
Dames  as  possible.     What  do  I  lose?  233 


2o8  A   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 

Eulaiia.  Nay,  I  only  think,  what  do  I  lose  ?  and,  one  more 
word — which  shall  complete  my  instruction — does  friendship 
go  too?  What  of  Luitolfo,  the  author  of  your  present  pros- 
perity ? 

Chiappino.  How  the  author? 

Eulaiia.  That  blow  now  called  yours —  239 

Chiappino.  Struck  without  principle  or  purpose,  as  by  a 
blind  natural  operation  ;  yet  to  which  all  my  thought  and 
life  directly  and  advisedly  tended.  I  would  have  struck  it, 
and  could  not  ;  he  would  have  done  his  utmost  to  avoid 
striking  it,  yet  did  so.  I  dispute  his  right  to  that  deed  of 
mine — a  final  action  with  him,  from  the  first  effect  of  which 
he  fled  away — a  mere  first  step  with  me,  on  which  I  base  a 
whole  mighty  superstructure  of  good  to  follow.  Could  he 
get  good  from  it  ? 

Eulaiia.  So  we  profess,  so  we  perform  ! 

Enter  Ogniben.     Eulalia  stands  apart. 

Ogniben.  I  have  seen  three-and-twenty  leaders  of  revolts  ! 
By  your  leave,  sir !  Perform  ?  What  does  the  lady  say  of 
performing  ?  252 

Chiappino.  Only  the  trite  saying,  that  we  must  not  trust 
profession,  only  performance. 

Ogniben.  She  '11  not  say  that,  sir,  when  she  knows  you 
longer ;  you  '11  instruct  her  better.  Ever  judge  of  men  by 
their  professions!  For  though  the  bright  moment  of  prom- 
ising is  but  a  moment  and  cannot  be  prolonged,  yet,  if  sin- 
cere in  its  moment's  extravagant  goodness,  why,  trust  it  and 
know  the  man  by  it,  I  say — not  by  his  performance ;  which 
is  half  the  world's  work,  interfere  as  the  world  needs  must, 
with  its  accidents  and  circumstances:  the  profession  was 
purely  the  man's  own.  I  judge  people  by  what  they  might 
be — not  are,  nor  will  be.  264 

Chiappino.  But  have  there  not  been  found,  too,  performing 
natures,  not  merely  promising? 


AC 7-  II. 


209 


Ogniben.  Plenty.  Little  Bindo  of  our  town,  for  instance, 
promised  his  friend,  great  ugly  Masaccio,  once, '  I  will  repay 
you  !' — for  a  favor  done  him.  So,  when  his  father  came  to 
die,  and  Bindo  succeeded  to  the  inheritance,  he  sends  straight- 
way for  Masaccio  and  shares  alj  with  him — gives  him  half 
the  land,  half  the  money,  half  the  kegs  of  wine  in  the  cellar. 
'  Good  '  say  you  ;  and  it  is  good.  But  had  little  Bindo  found 
himself  possessor  of  all  this  wealth  some  five  years  before — 
on  the  happy  night  when  Masaccio  procured  him  that  inter- 
view in  the  garden  with  his  pretty  cousin  Lisa  —  instead  of 
being  the  beggar  he  then  was — I  am  bound  to  believe  that 
in  the  warm  moment  of  promise  he  would  have  given  away 
all  the  wine-kegs  and  all  the  money  and  all  the  land,  and 
only  reserved  to  himself  some  hut  on  a  hill -top  hard  by, 
whence  he  might  spend  his  life  in  looking  and  seeing  his 
friend  enjoy  himself:  he  meant  fully  that  much,  but  the 
world  interfered.— To  our  business  !  Did  I  understand  you 
just  now  within-doors?  You  are  not  going  to  marry  your 
old  friend's  love,  after  all  ?  285 

Chiappino.  I  must  have  a  woman  that  can  sympathize 
with  and  appreciate  me,  I  told  you. 

Ogniben.  Oh,  I  remember !  you,  the  greater  nature,  needs 
must  have  a  lesser  one — avowedly  lesser — contest  with  you 
on  that  score  would  never  do — such  a  nature  must  compre- 
hend you,  as  the  phrase  is,  accompany  and  testify  of  your 
greatness'  from  point  to  point  onward.  Why,  that  were  be- 
ing not  merely  as  great  as  yourself,  but  greater  considera- 
bly! Meantime,  might  not  the  more  bounded  nature  as  rea- 
sonably count  on  your  appreciation  of  it,  rather?  —  on  your 
keeping  close  by  it,  so  far  as  you  both  go  together,  and  then 
going  on  by  yourself  as  far  as  you  please  ?    Thus  God  serves 

US.  298 

Chiappino.  And  yet  a  woman  that  could  understand  the 
whole  of  me,  to  whom  I  could  reveal  alike  the  strength  and 
the  weakness  — 


2IO  A   SOULS    TRAGEDY. 

Ogniben.  All!  my  friend, wish  for  nothing  so  foolish  !  Wor 
ship  your  love,  give  her  the  best  of  you  to  see;  be  to  her 
like  the  western  lands — they  bring  us  such  strange  news  of 
— to  the  Spanish  Court ;  send  her  only  your  lumps  of  gold, 
fans  of  feathers,  your  spirit-like  birds  and  fruits  and  gems  ! 
So  shall  you,  what  is  unseen  of  you,  be  supposed  altogether 
a  paradise  by  her — as  these  western  lands  by  Spain  :  though 
I  warrant  there  is  filth,  red  baboons,  ugly  reptiles,  and  squalor 
enough,  which  they  bring  Spain  as  few  samples  of  as  possi- 
ble. Do  you  want  your  mis'tress  to  respect  your  body  gen- 
erally? Offer  her  your  mouth  to  kiss;  don't  strip  off  your 
boot  and  put  your  foot  to  her  lips  !  You  understand  my  hu- 
mor by  this  time!  I  help  men  to  carry  out  their  own  prin- 
ciples :  if  they  please  to  say  two  and  two  make  five,  I  assent, 
so  they  will  but  go  on  and  say  four  and  four  make  ten.       3>6 

Chiappino.  But  these  are  my  private  affairs  ;  what  I  desire 
you  to  occupy  yourself  about,  is  my  public  appearance  pres- 
ently :  for  when  the  people  hear  that  I  am  appointed  Prov- 
ost, though  you  and  I  may  thoroughly  discern  —  and  easily, 
too — the  right  principle  at  bottom  of  such  a  movement,  and 
how  my  republicanism  remains  thoroughly  unaltered,  only 
takes  a  form  of  expression  hitherto  commonly  judged — and 
heretofore  by  myself — incompatible  with  its  existence — when 
thus  I  reconcile  myself  to  an  old  form  of  government  instead 
of  proposing  a  new  one —  326 

Ogniben.  Why,  you  must  deal  with  people  broadly.  Begin 
at  a  distance  from  this  matter  and  say  —  New  truths,  old 
truths !  sirs,  there  is  nothing  new  possible  to  be  revealed  to 
us  in  the  moral  world;  we  know  all  we  shall  ever  know: 
and  it  is  for  simply  reminding  us,  by  their  various  respective 
expedients,  how  we  do  know  this  and  the  other  matter,  that 
men  get  called  prophets,  poets,  and  the  like.  A  philoso- 
pher's life  is  spent  in  discovering  that,  of  the  half-dozen 
truths  he  knew  when  a  child,  such  an  one  is  a  lie,  as  the 
world  states  it  in  set  terms;  and  then,  after  a  weary  lapse 


ACT  //.  211 

of  years,  and  plenty  of  hard-thinking,  it  becomes  a  truth 
again  after  all,  as  he  happens  to  newly  consider  it  and  view 
it  in  a  different  relation  with  the  others  :  and  so  he  restates 
it,  to  the  confusion  of  somebody  else  in  good  time.  As  for 
adding  to  the  original  stock  of  truths — impossible !  Thus, 
you  see  the  expression  of  them  is  the  grand  business  : — you 
have  got  a  truth  in  your  head  about  the  right  way  of  govern- 
ing people,  and  you  took  a  mode  of  expressing  it  which  now 
you  confess  to  be  imperfect.  But  what  then  ?  There  is 
truth  in  falsehood,  falsehood  in  truth.  No  man  ever  told 
one  great  truth,  that  I  know,  without  the  help  of  a  good 
dozen  of  lies  at  least,  generally  unconscious  ones.  And  as 
when  a  child  comes  in  breathlessly  and  relates  a  strange 
story,  you  try  to  conjecture  from  the  very,  falsi  ties  in  it  what 
the  reality  was — do  not  conclude  that  he  saw  nothing  in  the 
sky,  because  he  assuredly  did  not  see  a  flying  horse  there  as 
he  says  —  so,  through  the  contradictory  expression,  do  you 
see,  men  should  look  painfully  for,  and  trust  to  arrive  eventu- 
ally at,  what  you  call  the  true  principle  at  bottom.  Ah,  what 
an  answer  is  there  !  to  what  will  it  not  prove  applicable? — 
1  Contradictions  ?     Of  course  there  were,'  say  you  ! 

Chiappino.  Still,  the  world  at  large  may  call  it  inconsist- 
ency, and  what  shall  I  urge  in  reply  ?  359 

Ogniben.  Why,  look  you,  when  they  tax  you  with  tergiver- 
sation or  duplicity,  you  may  answer — you  begin  to  perceive 
that,  when  all  's  done  and  said,  both  great  parties  in  the 
State,  the  advocators  of  change  in  the  present  system  of 
things,  and  the  opponents  of  it,  patriot  and  anti-patriot,  are 
found  working  together  for  the  common  good  ;  and  that  in 
the  midst  of  their  efforts  for  and  against  its  progress,  the 
world  somehow  or  other  still  advances :  to  which  result  they 
contribute  in  equal  proportions,  those  who  spend  their  life 
in  pushing  it  onward,  as  those  who  give  theirs  to  the  busi- 
ness of  pulling  it  back.  Now,  if  you  found  the  world  stand 
still  between  the  opposite  forces,  and  were  glad,  I  should 


212  A   SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 

conceive  you  ;  but  it  steadily  advances,  you  rejgice  to  see  ! 
By  the  side  of  such  a  rejoicer,  the  man  who  only  winks  as  he 
keeps  cunning  and  quiet,  and  says,  'Let  yonder  hot-headed 
fellow  fight  out  my  battle !  I,  for  one,  shall  win  in  the  end 
by  the  blows  he  gives,  and  which  I  ought  to  be  giving' — 
even  he  seems  graceful  in  his  avowal,  when  one  considers 
that  he  might  say, '  I  shall  win  quite  as  much  by  the  blows 
our  antagonist  gives  him,  blows  from  which  he  saves  me — I 
thank  the  antagonist  equally  !'  Moreover,  you  may  enlarge 
on  the  loss  of  the  edge  of  party-animosity  with  age  and  ex- 
perience—  382 

Chiappino.  And  naturally  time  must  wear  off  such  asperi- 
ties: the  bitterest  adversaries 'get  to  discover  certain  points 
of  similarity  between  each  other,  common  sympathies — do 
they  not  ? 

Ogniben.  Ay,  had  the  young  David  but  sat  first  to  dine 
on  his  cheeses  with  the  Philistine,  he  had  soon  discovered 
an  abundance  of  such  common  sympathies.  He  of  Gath,  it 
is  recorded,  was  born  of  a  father  and  mother,  had  brothers 
and  sisters  like  another  man  —  they,  no  more  than  the  sons 
of  Jesse,  were  used  to  eat  each  other.  But,  for  the  sake  of 
one  broad  antipathy  that  had  existed  from  the  beginning, 
David  slung  the  stone,  cut  off  the  giant's  head,  made  a  spoil 
of  it,  and  after  ate  his  cheeses  alone,  with  the  better  appetite, 
for  all  I  can  learn.  My  friend,  as  you,  with  a  quickened  eye- 
sight, go  on  discovering  much  good  on  the  worse  side,  re- 
member that  the  same  process  should  proportionably  mag- 
nify and  demonstrate  to  you  the  much  more  good  on  the 
better  side !  And  when  I  profess  no  sympathy  for  the  Goli- 
aths  of  our  time,  and  you  object  that  a  large  nature  should 
sympathize  with  every  form  of  intelligence,  and  see  the  good 
in  it,  however  limited — I  answer,  '  So  I  do  ,  but  preserve  the 
proportions  of  my  sympathy,  however  finelier  or  widelier  I 
may  extend  its  action.'  I  desire  to  be  able,  with  a  quick- 
ened eyesight,  to  descry  beauty  in  corruption  where  others 


ACT  II. 


213 


see  foulness  only ;  but  I  hope  I  shall  also  continue  to  see  a 
redoubled  beauty  in  the  higher  forms  of  matter,  where  al- 
ready everybody  sees  no  foulness  at  all.  I  must  retain,  too, 
my  old  power  of  selection,  and  choice  of  appropriation,  to 
apply  to  such  new  gifts  ;  else  they  only  dazzle  instead  of  en- 
lightening me.  God  has  his  archangels  and,  consorts  with 
them  ;  though  he  made  too,  and  intimately  sees  what  is  good 
in,  the  worm.  Observe,  I  speak  only  as  you  profess  to  think 
and  so  ought  to  speak  ;  I  do  justice  to  your  own  principles, 
that  is  all.  4«6 

Chiappino.  But  you  very  well  know  that  the  two  parties 
do,  on  occasion,  assume  each  other's  characteristics.  What 
more  disgusting,  for  instance,  than  to  see  how  promptly  the 
newly  emancipated  slave  will  adopt,  in  his  own  favor,  the 
very  measures  of  precaution  which  pressed  soreliest  on  him- 
self as  institutions  of  the  tyranny  he  has  just  escaped  from? 
Do  the  classes,  hitherto  without  opinion,  get  leave  to  express 
it?  there  follows  a  confederacy  immediately,  from  which — 
exercise  your  individual  right  and  dissent,  and  woe  be  to  you ! 

Ogniben.  And  a  journey  over  the  sea  to  you  !  That  is  the 
generous  way.  Cry — '  Emancipated  slaves,  the  first  excess, 
and  off  I  go!'  The  first  time  a  poor  devil,  who  has  been 
bastinadoed  steadily  his  whole  life  long,  finds  himself  let 
alone  and  able  to  legislate,  so,  begins  pettishly,  while  he  rubs 
his  soles, '  Woe  be  to  whoever  brings  anything  in  the  shape 
of  a  stick  this  way  !' — you,  rather  than  give  up  the  very  inno- 
cent pleasure  of  carrying  one  to  switch  flies  with — you  go 
away,  to  everybody's  sorrow.  Yet  you  were  quite  reconciled 
to  staying  at  home  while  the  governors  used  to  pass,  every 
now  and  then,  some  such  edict  as  '  Let  no  man  indulge  in 
owning  a  stick  which  is  not  thick  enough  to  chastise  our 
slaves,  if  need  require !'  Well,  there  are  preordained  hie- 
rarchies among  us,  and  a  profane  vulgar  subjected  to  a  dif- 
ferent law  altogether ;  yet  I  am  rather  sorry  you  should  see 
it  so  clearly:  for,  do  you  know  what  is  to — all  but  save  you 


214 


A   SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 


at  the  Day  of  Judgment,  all  you  men  of  genius?  It  is  this? 
that,  while  you  generally  began  by  pulling  down  God,  and 
went  on  to  the  end  of  your  life  in  one  effort  at  setting  up 
your  own  genius  in  his  place — still,  the  last,  bitterest  conces- 
sion, wrung  with  the  utmost  unwillingness  from  the  experi- 
ence of  the  very  loftiest  of  you,  was  invariably — would  one 
think  it  ?- — that  the  rest  of  mankind,  down  to  the  lowest  of 
the  mass,  stood  not,  nor  ever  could  stand,  just  on  a  level  and 
equality  with  yourselves.  That  will  be  a  point  in  the  favor 
of  all  such,  I  hope  and  believe.  451 

Chiappino.  Why,  men  of  genius  are  generally  charged,  I 
think,  with  doing  just  the  reverse  ;  and  at  once  acknowledg- 
ing the  natural  inequality  of  mankind,  by  themselves  partici- 
pating in  the  universal  craving  after,  and  deference  to,  the 
civil  distinctions  which  represent  it.  You  wonder  they  pay 
such  undue  respect  to  titles  and  badges  of  superior  rank. 

Ogniben.  Not  I — always  on  your  own  ground  and  show- 
ing, be  it  noted !  Who  doubts  that,  with  a  weapon  to  bran- 
dish, a  man  is  the  more  formidable  ?  Titles  and  badges  are 
exercised  as  such  a  weapon,  to  which  you  and  I  look  up 
wistfully.  We  could  pin  lions  with  it  moreover,  while  in  its 
present  owner's  hands  it  hardly  prods  rats.  Nay,  better 
than  a  mere  weapon  of  easy  mastery  and  obvious  use,  it  is  a 
mysterious  divining-rod  that  may  serve  us  in  undreamed-of 
ways.  Beauty,  strength,  intellect  —  men  often  have  none  of 
these,  and  yet  conceive  pretty  accurately  what  kind  of  advan- 
tages they  would  bestow  on  the  possessor.  We  know  at 
least  what  it  is  we  make  up  our  mind  to  forego,  and  so  can 
apply  the  fittest  substitute  in  our  power.  Wanting  beauty, 
we  cultivate  good -humor;  missing  wit,  we  get  riches:  but 
the  mystic  unimaginable  operation  of  that  gold  collar  and 
string  of  Latin  names  which  suddenly  turned  poor,  stupid, 
little,  peevish  Cecco  of  our  town  into  natural  lord  of  the  best 
of  us — a  Duke  he  is  now — there  indeed  is  a  virtue  to  be 
reverenced ! 


ACT  II. 


215 


Chiappino.  Ay,  by  the  vulgar ;  not  by  Messere  Stiatta  the 
poet,  who  pays  more  assiduous  court  to  him  than  anybody. 

Ogniben.  What  else  should  Stiatta  pay  court  to?  He  has 
talent,  not  honor  and  riches  :  men  naturally  covet  what  they 
have  not. 

Chiappino.  No,  or  Cecco  would  covet  talent,  which  he  has 
not,  whereas  he  covets  more  riches,  of  which  he  has  plenty 
already.  484 

Ogniben.  Because  a  purse  added  to  a  purse  makes  the 
holder  twice  as  rich  ;  but  just  such  another  talent  as  Stiat- 
ta's,  added  to  what  he  now  possesses,  what  would  that  profit 
him  ?  Give  the  talent  a  purse  indeed,  to  do  something  with  ! 
But  lo,  how  we  keep  the  good  people  waiting!  I  only  de- 
sired to  do  justice  to  the  noble  sentiments  which  animate 
you,  and  which  you  are  too  modest  to  duly  enforce.  Come, 
to  our  main  business  :  shall  we  ascend  the  steps?  I  am  go- 
ing to  propose  you  for  Provost  to  the  people  ;  they  know 
your  antecedents,  and  will  accept  you  with  a  joyful  unanim- 
ity: whereon  I  confirm  their  choice.  Rouse  up!  Are  you 
nerving  yourself  to  an  effort?  Beware  the  disaster  of  Mes- 
sere Stiatta  we  were  talking  of — who,  determining  to  keep 
an  equal  mind  and  constant  face  on  whatever  might  be  the 
fortune  of  his  last  new  poem  with  our  townsmen,  heard  too 
plainly  'hiss,  hiss,  hiss,'  increase  every  moment;  till  at  last 
the  man  fell  senseless — not  perceiving  that  the  portentous 
sounds  had  all  the  while  been  issuing  from  between  his  own 
nobly  clenched  teeth  and  nostrils  narrowed  by  resolve.      503 

Chiappino.  Do  you  begin  to  throw  off  the  mask? — to  jest 
with  me,  having  got  me  effectually  into  your  trap? 

Ogniben,  Where  is  the  trap,  my  friend  ?  You  hear  what  I 
engage  to  do,  for  my  part  ;  you,  for  yours,  have  only  to  fulfil 
your  promise  made  just  now  within  doors,  of  professing  un- 
limited obedience  to  Rome's  authority  in  my  person.  And 
I  shall  authorize  no  more  than  the  simple  re-establishment 
of  the  Provostship  and  the  conferment  of  its  privileges  upon 


2i6  A   SOUrS   TRAGEDY. 

yourself;  the  only  novel  stipulation  being  a  birth  of  the  pe- 
culiar circumstances  of  the  time. 

Chiappino.  And  that  stipulation  ? 

Ogniben.  Just  the  obvious  one — that  in  the  event  of  the 
discovery  of  the  actual  assailant  of  the  late  Provost — 

Chiappino.   Ha ! 

Ogniben.  Why,  he  shall  suffer  the  proper  penalty,  of  course  ; 
what  did  you  expect? 

Chiappino.  Who  heard  of  this  ?  52° 

Ogniben.  Rather,  who  needed  to  hear  of  this  ? 

Chiappino.  Can  it  be,  the  popular  rumor  never  reached 
you — 

Ogniben.  Many  more  such  rumors  reach  me,  friend,  than 
I  choose  to  receive ;  those  which  wait  longest  have  best 
chance.  Has  the  present  one  sufficiently  waited  ?  Now  is 
its  time  for  entry  with  effect.  See  the  good  people  crowding 
about  yonder  palace-steps — which  we  may  not  have  to  as- 
cend, after  all !  My  good  friends  ! — nay,  two  or  three  of  you 
will  answer  every  purpose — who  was  it  fell  upon  and  proved 
nearly  the  death  of  your  late  Provost  ?  His  successor  desires 
to  hear,  that  his  day  of  inauguration  may  be  graced  by  the 
act  of  prompt,  bare  justice  we  all  anticipate.  Who  dealt 
the  blow  that  night,  does  anybody  know  ? 

Luitolfo  [coming  forward],   I !  53s 

Ail.  Luitolfo! 

Luitolfo.  I  avow  the  deed,  justify  and  approve  it,  and 
stand  forth  now,  to  relieve  my  friend  of  an  unearned  re- 
sponsibility. Having  taken  thought,  I  am  grown  stronger; 
I  shall  shrink  from  nothing  that  awaits  me.  Nay,  Chiappi- 
no— we  are  friends  still :  I  dare  say  there  is  some  proof  of 
your  superior  nature  in  this  starting  aside,  strange  as  it 
seemed  at  first.  So,  they  tell  me,  my  horse  is  of  the  right 
stock,  because  a  shadow  in  the  path  frightens  him  into 
a  frenzy,  makes  him  dash  my  brains  out.  I  understand 
only  the  dull  mule's  way  of  standing  stockishly,  plodding 


ACT  II.  217 

soberly,  suffering  on  occasion  a  blow  or  two  with  due  pa- 
tience. 

Eulalia.  I  was  determined  to  justify  my  choice,  Chiappi- 
no ;  to  let  Luitolfo's  nature  vindicate  itself.  Henceforth  we 
are  undivided,  whatever  be  our  fortune.  55' 

Ogniben.  Now,  in  these  last  ten  minutes  of  silence,  what 
have  I  been  doing,  deem  you?  Putting  the  finishing  stroke 
to  a  homily  of  mine,  I  have  long  taken  thought  to  perfect,  on 
the  text, '  Let  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth,  take  heed  lest  he 
fall.'  To  your  house,  Luitolfo!  Still  silent,  my  patriotic 
friend?  Well,  that  is  a  good  sign,  however.  And  you  will 
go  aside  for  a  time?  That  is  better  still.  I  understand  :  it 
would  be  easy  for  you  to  die  of  remorse  here  on  the  spot 
and  shock  us  all,  but  you  mean  to  live  and  grow  worthy  of 
coming  back  to  us  one  day.  There,  I  will  tell  everybody; 
and  you  only  do  right  to  believe  you  must  get  better  as  you 
get  older.  All  men  do  so  :  they  are  worst  in  childhood,  im- 
prove in  manhood,  and  get  ready  in  old  age  for  another 
world.  Youth,  with  its  beauty  and  grace,  would  seem  be- 
stowed on  us  for  some  such  reason  as  to  make  us  partly  en- 
durable till  we  have  time  for  really  becoming  so  of  ourselves, 
without  their  aid,  when  they  leave  us.  The  sweetest  child 
we  all  smile  on  for  his  pleasant  want  of  the  whole  world  to 
break  up,  or  suck  in  his  mouth,  seeing  no  other  good  in  it — 
would  be  rudely  handled  by  that  world's  inhabitants,  if  he 
retained  those  angelic  infantine  desires  when  he  had  grown 
six  feet  high,  black  and  bearded.  But,  little  by  little,  he  sees 
fit  to  forego  claim  after  claim  on  the  world,  puts  up  with  a 
less  and  less  share  of  its  good  as  his  proper  portion  ;  and 
when  the  octogenarian  asks  barely  a  sup  of  gruel  and  a  fire 
of  dry  sticks,  and  thanks  you  as  for  his  full  allowance  and 
right  in  the  common  good  of  life — hoping  nobody  may  mur- 
der him — he  \\h>»  began  by  asking  and  expecting  the  whole 
of  us  to  bow  down  in  worship  to  him — why,  I  say  he  is  ad- 
vanced, far  onward,  very   far,  nearly   out  of  sight  like  our 


218 


.-/   SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 


friend  Chiappino  yonder.  And  now — ay,  goodbye  to  you  ! 
He  turns  round  the  northwest  gate  :  going  to  Lugo  again? 
Good-bye  ! — And  now  give  thanks  to  God,  the  keys  of  the 
Provost's  palace  to  me,  and  yourselves  to  profitable  medita- 
tion at  home!  I  have  known  /bwr-and-twenty  leaders  of 
revolts.  587 


NOTES. 


ABBREVIATIONS  USED   IN  THE  NOTES. 

Cf  (confer),  compare. 
fit*  following. 
Id.  (idem),  the  same. 

New  Eng.  Diet,  the  Philological  Society's  New  English   Dictionary,  edited  by 
Murray  (Oxford,  1885). 
Prol.,  prologue. 

Skeat,  Rev.  W.  W.  Skeat's  Etymological  Diciiona  v  (London.  1881). 
Wb.,  Webster's  Dictionary  (revised  quarto  ed.). 

The  abbreviations  of  the  names  of  Shakespeare's  plays  will  be  readily  understood. 
The  line-numbers  are  those  of  the  "  Globe  "  ed. 


NOTES. 


A   BLOT  IN  THE   'SCUTCHEON. 

A  Blot  in  the  ' 'Scutcheon  was  first  published  in  1843  as  No.  V.  of  Bells 
and  Pomegranates.  It  was  written  in  five  days,  and  has  been  but  slight- 
ly modified  in  the  more  recent  editions.  The  alterations  are  given  in  the 
notes  below. 

The  play  has  had  three  great  presentations  on  the  stage.  The  first 
was  in  February,  1843,  at  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  London,  when  it 
ran  about  a  week.  Mr.  Phelps  played  the  part  of  Tresham,  Miss  Helen 
Faucit  that  of  Mildred,  and  Air.  Anderson  that  of  Mertoun.  The  Exam- 
iner declares  all  the  characters  to  have  been  underacted.  This  is  easily 
conceivable,  considering  the  key  in  which  the  piece  is  set.  On  Novem- 
ber 27,  1848,  Mr.  Phelps  revived  the  play  at  Sadler's  Wells.  The  cast 
this  time  included  Mr.  Phelps,  Miss  Cooper,  and  Mr.  Dickinson  as  the 
principal  trio,  and  Miss  Huldart  and  Mr.  Graham  as  Guendolen  and 
Gerard.  The  piece  had  a  run  of  two  weeks,  and  is  said  to  have  been 
excellently  mounted  and  well  acted. 

But  the  production  which  will  have  most  interest  for  American  readers 
is  that  by  Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett  at  Washington  in  the  winter  of  1885.  His 
version  of  the  play  opens  with  the  second  scene.  The  first  scene  among 
the  retainers  seems  quite  in  Shakespeare's  manner,  but  the  modern  audi- 
ence brooks  no  delay  in  getting  at  the  plot.  So  Mr.  Barrett  takes  us  at 
once  to  the  formal  reception  of  Mertoun.  For  the  assumption  of  the 
leading  rdles,  see  p.  14  above.  Mr.  Barrett  himself  took  the  part  of 
Tresham.  The  "cuts"  and  other  alterations  will  be  indicated  in  the 
notes. 

No  one  who  has  seen  the  play  under  Mr.  Barrett's  management  but 
must  confess  that  it  has  some  fine  acting  qualities.  The  great  stage 
point  is,  however,  the  device  of  Mr.  Barrett  rather  than  of  Mr.  Browning. 
See  on  iii.  2.  56  below. 


ACT   I. 

v  ink  I. — In  the  stage-direction,  the  1st  ed.  has  "Gkkard,  the  War- 
rener,  sitting  alone,  his  back"  etc. 
4.  Poursuivant.     Herald  or  messenger ;   also  spelt  pursuivant.    Cf. 


222  A   BLOT  IN   THE   'SCUTCHEON. 

Shakespeare,  I  Hen.  VI.  ii.  5.  5  :  "  these  grey  locks,  the  pursuivants  of 
death,"  etc. 

13.  Bravery.  Finery ;  the  familiar  old  sense.  Cf.  Shakespeare,  T. 
of  S.  it.  3.  57:  "  With  scarfs  and  fans  and  double  change  of  bravery," 
etc.     See  also  p.  237  below,  note  on  341. 

29.  Your  hawks.  This  allusion  to  falconry  would  tend  to  fix  the  time 
of  the  play  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  18th  century.  Trie  ancient  art,  after 
declining  in  the  17th,  was  revived  in  the  early  part  of  the  18th,  but  was 
given  up  about  1725. 

42.  Holidays.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  holy  days." 

44.  Cast  of  hawks.  Couple  of  hawks.  Cast  is  used  in  this  sense  only 
in  the  language  of  falconry. 

45.  Leash  of  greyhounds.  That  is,  three  of  them.  The  leash  was  prop- 
erly the  thong  or  line  by  which  the  hounds  were  led.  Cf.  Coriolauus,  i. 
6.38: 

"  Holding  Corioli  in  the  name  of  Rome, 
Even  like  a  fawning  greyhound  in  the  leash, 
To  let  him  slip  at  will." 

On  the  use  of  the  word  in  the  text,  cf.  1  lieu.  IV.  ii.  4.  7  :  "I  am  sworn 
brother  to  a  leash  of  drawers,  and  can  call  them  all  by  their  Christen 
names,  as  Tom,  Dick,  and  Francis"  (there  being  three  of  them). 

46.  Supporter.     In  the  heraldic  sense. 

48.  Crab.  Alluding  to  the  crab-apple,  of  course,  whence  crabbed;  as 
illustrated  by  Winter's  Tale,  i.  2,  102 :  "  Three  crabbed  months  had 
sour'd  themselves  to  death." 

59.  Proper.  In  the  old  sense  of  comely.  Cf.  Tempest,  ii.  2.  63  (Ste- 
phano's  speech) :  "  as  proper  a  man  as  ever  went  on  four  legs,"  etc. 
See  also  Heb.  xi.  23. 

61.  A  starrier  eye.     Cf.  i.  2.  48  below. 

93.  No  herald  more.  Alluding  to  the  officer  whose  business  it  is  to 
marshal  and  order. royal  cavalcades,  ceremonies  at  coronations  and  other 
state  occasions,  etc.  He  must,  of  course,  be  familiar  with  all  the  niceties 
of  court  usage  and  etiquette. 

Scene  II. — 16.  He  V  the  king's.  That  is,  he  is  in  the  army.  Cf.  ii.  326 
below. 

27.  As  calmly  V  is  denied.  The  1st  ed.  has  "as  quietly  denied  ;"  and 
in  31,  "thank  you,  for,  Lord  Tresham,"  etc. 

34.  The  world  thinks  me.  The  1st  ed.  italicizes  me  here  and  also  two 
lines  below  ;  so  with  it  in  39. 

59.  Thicks.  Thickets;  as  in  Spenser  and  other  writers  of  that  day. 
Cf.  Drayton,  Polyolbion,  xiii. : 

"  And  through  the  cumb'rous  thicks  as  fearfully  he  makes, 
He  with  his  branched  head  the  tender  saplings  shakes." 


60.  Eyass.     Young  hawk.     Cf.  Spenser,  F.  Q.  i.  II.  34 

"  Like  Eyas  hauke  up  mounts  unto  the  skies, 
His  newly-budded  pineons  to  assay." 

72.  She  has  never  known,  etc.     Cf.  i.  3.  237  below. 


ACT  I.     SCENE  III. 


223 


HO.  /  'd  not  think.     The  /is  italicized  in  1st  ed.,  as  in  114  below. 

128.  The  mercy  -  stroke.  The  death  -  stroke,  as  put  ling  an  end  to  tort- 
ure. 

133.  Mildred  is  fourteen.  In  this  extraordinary  statement  seems  to  be 
the  chief  dramatic  blemish  of  the  play.  It  taxes  our  credulity  to  believe 
that  Juliet  was  only  fourteen ;  but  with  her  we  could  at  least  fall  back 
upon  the  theory  that  girls  develop  more  rapidly  in  southern  countries 
than  in  northern,  and  that  they  are  married  proportionally  early.  Here 
we  are  asked  to  credit  the  amazing  statement  that  a  conservative  English 
lord  deliberately  and  indeed  eagerly  arranges  the  betrothal  of  his  sister 
at  the  time-honored  Juliet  age.  It  is  interesting  to  note  how  completely 
Browning  ignores  his  own  limitation  as  to  years.  For  instance,  in  79 
above  Tresham  speaks  of  Mildred  as  "imbued  with  lore,"  etc.  If  the 
English  girl  of  the  last  century  reached  that  point  of  culture  at  fourteen, 
what  must  she  have  been  at  forty  ?  It  is  impossible  to  believe  that 
Browning  ever  actually  pictured  Mildred  as  fourteen,  though  we  see  in  the 
next  scene  why  he  wants  to  represent  her  as  young  as  possible. 

139.  Harangue.    The  1st  ed.  has  "harangues." 

152.  Yon  golden  creature.  The  English  ed.  (1865)  misprints  "Yon 
golden  creature." 

Scene  III. — There  is  no  change  of  scene  in  Barrett's  version.  The 
"  chamber  "  adjoins  the  "  saloon,"  and  looks  out  upon  the  park. 

In  the  1st  ed.  the  stage-direction  has  "  A  painted  window  in  the  back- 
ground.^ 

27.  The  l>mv-hand.  The  hand  which  holds  the  bow,  or  the  left  hand  ; 
the  arrow-hand  being  the  right.  Cf.  Shakespeare,  L.  L.  L.  iv.  1.  135  : 
"Wide  o'  the  bow-hand !  i'  faith,  your  hand  is  out;"  that  is,  far  to  the 
left  of  the  mark. 

36.  Would  die  for  him.     Cf.  ii.  69  below. 

67.  That  fair  dame,  etc.  The  Countess  of  Salisbury.  The  story  of 
the  Order  of  the  Garter  is  too  familiar  to  be  retold  here. 

81.  There  's  a  woman,  etc.  Mr.  Barrett  was  forced  to  omit  this  song 
from  the  acted  play,  although  he  speaks  of  it  as  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful poems  in  the  world.  The  dramatic  situation  was  too  long  delayed  by 
the  pause  which  the  song  makes.  Archdeacon  Farrar,  in  his  American 
lecture  on  Browning,  cited  this  as  the  most  beautiful  song  to  a  woman  in 
the  English  tongue. 

90.  Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before  her.  For 
this  same  expression  used  from  the  other  side,  cf.  In  a  Gondola  : 

"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 
Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 
She  bids  me  wear :  which— say  again— 
I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 
A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 
Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

116.  Expressless.  The  word  is  not  in  the  dictionaries,  and  is  probably 
Browning's  own. 

128.  Come  what  come  will,  etc.     Cf.  Confessions: 


224 


A   BLOT  IN   THE  \SCUTCHEON. 


"  We  loved,  sir— used  to  meet : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  ft  was, 
But  then,  bow  it  was  sweet  !" 
and  In  a  Gondola : 

"but  I 
Have  lived  indeed,  and  so— yet  £ne  more  kiss!  -can  die." 

151.  That  should  spirt  water,  etc.  Cf.  Calpurnia's  dream  in  Julius 
Casar,  ii.  2.  76  : 

"  She  dream'd  to-ni^ht  she  saw  my  statua 
Which,  like  a  fountain  with  an  hundred  spouts, 
Did  run  pure  blood,"  etc. 

166.  To-morrcnv!  That  is,  do  it  to-morrow.  The  1st  ed.  has  "To- 
morrow ?" 

187.  Diamond  scales.  That  is,  sensitive  scales,  like  those  used  in 
weighing  precious  stones. 

203.  Bower.     In  the  old  sense  of  chamber. 

217.  My  fight-mark.  The  compound  is  apparently  Browning's  own. 
The  reference  is  to  a  knight's  wearing  his  lady's  favor  in  his  helmet  in 
tourney  or  combat.     Cf.  Rich.  II.  v.  3.  15  : 

"  His  answer  was, — he  would  unto  the  stews, 
And  from  the  common'st  creature  pluck  a  glove, 
And  wear  it  as  a  t.vour;  and  with  that 
He  would  unhorse  the  lustiest  challenger." 

237.  I  was  so  young,  etc.     See  p.  43  above. 


ACT   II. 

Mr.  Barrett  was  asked  what  he  thought  of  Dickens's  suggestion  that 
Gerard  should  be  made  to  tell  his  story  for  the  first  time  on  the  stage, 
and  should  meet  and  conquer  Tresham's  wrath,  extending  perhaps  even 
to  the  point  of  the  masters  attacking  the  servant.  Mr.  Barrett  at  once 
declared  that  such  a  scene  would  be  impossible  in  its  difficulty.  The  fact 
that  Tresham  has  already  half  grasped  the  horrible  idea  makes  his  anger 
and  grief  representable.  It  is  worth  remembering  in  this  connection, 
perhaps,  that  Charlotte  Cushman  and  Mrs.  Kemble  believed  Lady  Mac- 
beth to  have  read  the  fatal  letter  from  her  husband  before  she  reads  it  to 
the  audience. 

28.  To  merely  have.  Browning  often  puts  an  adverb  inside  the  infini- 
tive in  this  way.     Cf.  216  and  335  below. 

31.  /'  the  midst.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  in  the  midst."  Tennyson,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  given  up  sundry  contractions  of  the  sort  that  appear  in 
his  early  eds. ;  as  "i'  the  pane"  and  "up  an'  away  "  in  Mariana,  etc. 

35.  A  small  dark-blue  pane.     Cf.  i.  3.48,63  above,  and  iii.  1.  43  below. 

101.  Settle.  The  1st  ed.  has  "settles  ;"  and  in  the  stage-direction  be- 
low "above  him  "  for  above  his  head. 

178.  Her  soul.     The  Her  is  italicized  in  1st  ed. 

193.  Or,  no.  The  1st  ed.  has  "Oh,  no;"  and  in  195  "silk-slight"  for 
tilk-like. 


ACT  II.  225 

235.  /  7/  hide  your  shame  .  .  .  every  eye.  Mr.  Barrett  omils  the  rest 
of  this  scene  except  the  following  lines  (241,  284-287) : 

"  We  too  will  somehow  wear  this  one  day  out. 
What  were  it  silently  to  waste  away 
And  see  thee  waste  away  from  this  day  forth, 
Two  scathed  things  with  leisure  to  repent 
And  grow  acquainted  with  the  grave  and  die?*' 

245.  I  have  dispatched  last  night.  The  grammars  forbid  this  use  of  the 
present  perfect,  or  whatever  the  tense  may  be  called,  with  reference  to 
time  wholly  past. 

252.    The  Earl !    Italicized  in  1st  ed. 

265.  Oy  the  lattice.    The  1st  ed.  has  '•  Of  the  lattice."    See  on  31  above. 

267.  Bacchant.  Evidently  an  Anglicizing  of  Bacchante,  a  priestess  or 
votaress  of  Bacchus,  though  most  of  the  dictionaries  do  not  recognize 
this  feminine  use  of  the  form  in  the  text. 

283.   Would  scatter.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  Had  scattered." 

289.  //  were  not.  The  1st  ed.  has  "This  were  not ;"  and  in  295  "  In- 
vite "  for  Invites. 

303.  Losels.  Worthless  fellows.  Cf.  Verstegan,  Restitution,  etc.,  1605  : 
'a  Losel  is  one  that  hath  lost,  neglected,  or  cast  off  his  owne  good  and 
welfare,  and  so  is  become  lewde  and  carelesse  of  credit  and  honesty;" 
and  Spenser,  F.  Q.  ii.  3.  4 : 

"  The  whyles  a  losell  wandring  by  the  way, 
One  that  to  bountie  never  cast  his  mynd, 
Ne  thought  of  honour  ever  did  assay 
His  baser  brest,"  etc. 

308.  Such  poor  outcasts.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  these  poor  outcasts ;"  in 
314  "safelier  "  for  surelier ;  and  in  320  "where  's"  for  where. 

333.  Who  said.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  Who  've  said." 

335.    To  only  signify.     See  on  28  above. 

351.  Your  face.  The  1st  ed.  has  "your  sight ;"  in  353  "hootings"  for 
hooting ;  and  in  358  "don't  believe  one  half"  for  does  not  believe  half. 

356.  Next.  Nearest.  Cf.  Winters  Tale,  iii.  3.  129:  "home,  home, 
the  next  way  .  .  .  come,  good  boy,  the  next  way  home." 

373.  Has  Thoi  old  gone,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  left  "  for  gone. 

397.  He  is  your  lover  ?    The  1st  ed.  italicizes  is. 

424.  Thorold  's  gone,  etc.  Mr.  Barrett  begins  the  third  act  here.  Guen- 
dolen,  Austin,  and  Mildred  pass  across  the  scene  with  these  few  words, 
and  disappear  within  the  house.  Then  Tresham  comes  back,  speaks  his 
soliloquy,  and  conceals  himself  among  the  trees.  Mildred's  chamber 
opens  by  a  bow-window  and  small  balcony  upon  the  park. 


ACT   III. 
1   I.— 24.    Wimple.     A  kind  of  veil.     Cf.  F.  Q.  i.  12.  22; 


15 


"  For  she  had  layd  her  moumefull  stole  aside, 
And  widow-like  sad  wimnje  thrown  away." 


226  A   BLOT  IN   THE   'SCUTCHEON. 

Hence  the  verb  (=s  plaited  or  folded  like  a  veil) ;  ns  in  /•'.  (>.  i.  i.  4  :  "In 
der  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low  ;"  and  Shakespeare,  /..  /..  /.  iii.  I. 
181  :  "This  wimpled,  whining,  pin  blind,  wayward  hoy  ;"  that  is,  the  veiled 
or  hoodwinked  C upid.  In  the  present  passage,  the  English  cd.  (1885) 
prints  "  whimple,"  a  form  which,  though  recognized  by  the  dictionaries 
for  the  verb,  is  inconsistent  with  the  derivation  of  the  word.  It  is  wimple 
in  the  1st  ed. 

33.  /'  the  chapel.  The  1st  ed.  has  "In  the  chapel."  See  on  ii.  31 
above. 

36.  To  watch.     The  1st  ed.  has  "to  see." 

55.  That  was  mild.  The  1st  ed.  italicizes  that ;  and  the  stage-direc- 
tion at  next  line  reads  :  "  They  advance  to  the  front  of  the  stage." 

76.  Seem  what  you  seem.  The  1st  ed.  has  "are  what  you  are  ;"  and  in 
81  "will  keep"  for  retain. 

1 13.  Were  the  giving.  The  1st  ed.  has  "had  been  giving  ;"  and  in  133 
"passion's"  for  passion. 

152.  Was  yours.  The  1st  ed.  has  "have  you  ;"  and  in  156  it  italicizes 
you  in  Never  you  sin. 

163.  Lowers  me  down,  etc.     Cf.  Tennyson,  Dream  of  Fair  Women, 

"  Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave." 

170.  Shall  have.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  to  have." 

183.  Lift  you  the  body.  The  tst  ed.  has  "  Lift  you  the  body,  Gerard  ;" 
which  makes  the  line  a  foot  too  long. 

196.  The  boy.  The  1st  ed.  has  "these  boys;"  in  211  "this  night"  for 
his  breast ;  and  in  212  "  willingly  "  for  carelessly.     In  214  it  italicizes  /. 

217.  To  set  the  neck  to.  Guendolen,  in  Mr.  Barrett's  reproduction, 
makes  her  exit  here,  and  Tresham  at  the  close  of  his  next  speech  disap- 
pears among  the  trees.  Mildred  shortly  appears  at  the  window  and  be- 
gins her  soliloquy.     At  iii.  2.  9  she  comes  out  into  the  park. 

220.  A  Fury  leading  thus.     The  1st  ed.  has  "a  Fury  free  to  lead." 

Scene  II. — 4.  Diffused.  Accented  on  the  first  syllable;  as  similar 
dissyllabic  adjectives  and  participles  often  are  in  Shakespeare  when  they 
precede  the  noun.  Cf.  despised,  for  instance,  in  Hamlet,  iii.  1.  72:  "The 
pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay." 

37.  Those  water-lilies.  The  1st  ed.  has  "the  water-lilies."  In  56  it 
italicizes^//  in  Are  you,  too,  silent?  and  in  62  may  in  you  may  tell. 

56.  Ah!  this  speaks  for  you.  During  this  scene,  on  Mr.  Barrett's 
stage,  Mildred  has  walked  half  unconsciously  through  the  trees,  and  has 
approached  the  spot  where  Mertoun's  cloak  and  hat  lie,  as  he  threw 
them  off  before  the  struggle  with  Tresham.  At  this  instant  she  catches 
sight  of  them.  They  tell  their  own  story,  and  she  cries  "  You  've  mur- 
dered Henry  Mertoun  !"  It  will  be  readily  seen  how  easy  it  would  be 
on  the  stage  to  miss  the  force  of  the  empty  scabbard  ;  but  there  is  a  ter- 
rible thrill  over  the  discovery  df  the  cloak  unclasped  but  an  instant  be- 
fore by  the  hands  now  dead. 

Literature  does  not  match  the  pathos  and  the  helplessness  of  Mildred's 


ACT  III.     SCENE  II. 


227 


situation.  Desckmona  in  her  chamber  singing  the  weird  song  wrings 
the  heart ;  but  though  she  has  lost  her  father  and  her  husband,  she  has 
kept  her  innocence.  Juliet  has  love  and  hope  even  at  the  worst.  Her- 
mione  is  sustained  by  a  lofty  sense  of  the  justice  of  her  cause.  Ophelia's 
frenzy  comes  to  assuage  her  pain  and  ours.  Marguerite,  in  Faust,  is  the 
only  woman  who  can  claim  kinship  with  Mildred  by  virtue  of  an  equal 
agony.  Even  she  suffers  less,  because  hers  is  a  less  intellectual  nature. 
While  it  feels  most  keenly,  it  does  not  think  so  untiringly.  Thought  is 
torture.  Mildred  has  lost  her  own  self-respect,  her  brother's  love  (as  she 
supposes),  and  her  lover.  There  is  no  further  depth  of  misery  for  her  to 
sound. 

71.  You  loose.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  You  loosed."  In  72  it  italicizes  You, 
and  in  73  He. 

82.  And  love  of  me,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  And  love  of  me,  you  loved 
I  think,  and  yet,"  etc.     In  88  it  has  "  loves  "  for  love. 

100.  Immovable.  The  English  ed.  (1885)  confuses  the  sense  by  the 
misprint  of  a  comma  instead  of  a  period  at  the  end  of  this  line.  The  1st 
ed.  has  an  exclamation-point. 

102.  Had  gleamed  some  inlet.  Of  course  inlet  is  the  subject  of  had 
gleamed. 

137.  Foredone.     Exhausted.     Cf.  Shakespeare,  M.  N.  D.v.  1.381  : 

"  Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 
All  with  weary  task  fordone." 

Fordone  is  the  spelling  of  the  early  eds.  of  Shakespeare,  and  accords  with 
the  etymology  of  the  word,  the  first  syllable  being  the  intensive  for,  not 
fore. 

138.  This  pageant-world.  This  world  which  is  but  "  a  stage  where 
every  man  must  play  a  part  "  (M.  of  V.  i.  1.  77).  Pageant  in  Shakespeare 
commonly  means  a  theatrical  exhibition,  literal  or  figurative.  Cf.  T.  G. 
of  V.  iv.  4.  164:  "  When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd  ;"  A.  Y. 
L.  ii.  7.  138: 

"  This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in  ;*' 

It.  iii.  4.  55  :  "  If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd,"  etc. 

139.  Masque.     Throng  of  actors. 

150.  Gules.     The  heraldic  term  for  red.     Cf.  Hamlet,  ii.  2.  479: 

'"  head  to  foot 
Now  is  he  total  gules;  horridly  trick'd 
With  blood  of  fathers,  mothers,  daughters,  sons ;" 

and  T.  of  A.  iv.  3.  59:  "  Witb  man's  blood  paint  the  ground,  gules, 
gules."  See  also  the  description  of  the  painted  window  in  Keats's  Eve  of 
St.  Agntt,  in  which  "  A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings,"  and  the  moon,  shining  through  it.  "  threw  warm  gules  on  Mad- 
eline's fair  breast,"  as  she  knelt  in  prayer. 


COLOMBE' S  BIRTHDAY. 


COLOMBE'S   BIRTHDAY. 


This  play  was  first  published  in  1844  as  No.  VI.  of  Bells  and  Pomegran- 
ates. It  was  performed  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  in  London,  April  25, 
1853,  Miss  Helen  Faucit  taking  the  part  of  Colombe  ;  also,  with  Miss 
Alma  Murray  as  Colombe,  at  St.  George's  Hall,  London,  November  19, 
1885,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Browning  Society.  Cf.  p.  47  above.  The 
performance  referred  to  by  Mr.  Conway  (p.  46  above)  was  at  the  Howard 
Athenaeum  in  Boston.  Feb.  16,  1854. 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  between  morning  and  evening  of  a 
single  day — the  birthday  of  the  heroine. 


ACT  I. 


I.  That  this  should  be  her  birthday.  It  is  often  necessary  that  Brown- 
ing's sentences  and  also  his  situations  should  be  read  by  the  aid  of  what 
follows  as  well  as  of  what  precedes.  In  this  respect  he  differs  radically 
from  Shakespeare,  who  always  explains  as  he  goes  along  ;  indeed,  before 
he  goes  along.  Here,  for  example,  one  must  read  the  scene  half  through 
before  the  real  situation  reveals  itself.  The  student  will  find  Symons's 
argument  of  the  play  (p.  44  above)  very  useful.  Of  course  this  tendency 
on  the  part  of  Browning  is  seen  fully  developed  in  the  dramatic  mono- 
logues, where  the  reader  must  grasp  the  whole  situation  before  the  first 
line  becomes  intelligible  to  him.  As  illustrations  witness  The  Soliloquy 
of  the  Spanish  Cloister,  The  Confessional,  etc.  Often  the  title  of  the  poem 
gives  the  needed  clue  to  the  action,  as  in  Mesmerism,  Misconceptions, 
Tinted  Revenges.  This  is  worth  mention  because  there  is  scarcely  an- 
other poet  who  depends  to  any  considerable  extent  upon  his  titles  as 
keys  to  his  poems.  Be  it  virtue  or  fault.it  is  a  fact  that  Browning  writes 
to  the  highest  intelligence  and  the  quickest  intuition  of  his  readers. 

14.  Ravestein.  The  small  town  of  Ravestein,  or  Ravenstein,  is  on  the 
Meuse,  in  the  Dutch  province  of  North  Brabant.  It  has  about  eight  hun- 
dred inhabitants  and  an  old  castle.     It  is  thirty  miles  west  of  Cleves. 

15.  Extreme.  Accented  on  the  first  syllable.  See  on  Blot,  iii.  2.  4. 
above,  and  cf.  express  in  30  below. 

16.  Where  she  lived  queen.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  where  queen  she  lived." 
It  will  be  seen  that  many  of  the  alterations  in  the  text  are  made,  like  this, 
merely  to  get  rid  of  needless  inversions. 

17.  Juliets.  A  fortified  town  in  Rhenish  Prussia,  twenty  miles  north- 
east of  Aix-la-Chapelle.     It  has  now  some  three  thousand  inhabitants. 

21.  Outgrows.     The  1st  ed.  has  "outgoes." 

28.  Of  all  men  else.     An  old  "  confusion  of  construction."    ('A.  Macbeth, 
v.  8.  4:  "Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee." 
40.   This  to  present.     The  1st  ed.  italicizes  This. 


ACT  /. 


229 


70.   The  autumn  floats  of  pine-wood.     The  rafts  coming  down  the  river. 

84.  Salic  law.  According  to  which  females  were  excluded  from  the 
succession.     C£  Hen.  V.  i.  2.  35  : 

"'there  is  no  bar 
To  make  against  your  highness'  claim  to  France 
But  this,  which  they  produce  from  l'haramond, — 
'  In  terram  Salicam  mulieres  ne  succedant ': 
No  woman  shall  succeed  in  Salique  land,"  etc. 

85.  That  one.     The  1st  ed.  has  "And  one." 

95.  Mummery.     In  the  old  sense  of  a  theatrical  show,  like  masque. 
113.  You  broke  your  father's  heart,  etc.     Cf.  iv.  91  below. 
118.  We  Jll  take,  etc.     This  line,  and  120  below,  are  not  in  the  1st  ed. 
121.  Call  the  Prince  our  Duke.     The  tst  ed.  reads  "  Let  the  Prince  be 
Duke  ;"  and  in  125  "  So  coolly  as  he  could  and  would." 

128.  /'ve  ruined  Maufroy,  etc.  Maufroy  is  the  youngest  of  this  inter- 
esting assembly.  He  has,  as  is  becoming,  the  smallest  part  in  the  dis- 
cussion, both  here  and  in  act  iv.  But  from  what  he  has  to  say  it  would 
appear  that  Guibert's  cynicism  could  not  much  harm  him. 

129.  Coil.  Ado.  Cf.  Shakespeare,  R.  and  y.  ii.  5.  67  :  "  here's  such  a 
coil  !"     T.  of  A.  i.  2.  236 :  "  What  a  coil  's  here  !"  etc. 

130.  Count  its  residue,  etc.  A  good  example  of  the  sentences  requiring 
the  backward  look  mentioned  in  note  on  1  above. 

133.  Bid  that  keep  silence.     The  1st  ed.  italicizes  that. 

149.  And  the  lady 's  people  go.  .The  1st  ed.  has  "  and  the  people  go  ;  't  is 
instinct." 

151,  Why  should  they  wait,  etc.     This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. 

155.  Lighted.     The  1st  ed.  has  "Lit  up." 

163.  Pill  and  poll.  Plunder  and  strip;  a  common  alliterative  phrase 
in  hlizabethan  writers. 

1 74.  Their  vine  leaf  wrappage,  etc.  The  enforced  tribute  being  adorned 
like  a  voluntary  offering. 

175.  Crcnuiung.  The  reading  of  the  1st  ed.  The  ed.  of  1885  has 
"crowding,"  which,  as  Mr.  Browning  writes  us,  is  a  "vile  misprint." 

177.  Cuppings.  Taking  off  their  caps.  Cf.  the  similar  use  of  bonneted 
in  Coriolntius,  ii.  2.  30  :  "  those  who,  having  been  supple  and  courteous  to 
the  people,  bonneted,  without  any  further  deed  to  have  them  at  all  into 
their  estimation  and  report."  Cotgrave  defines  the  Yr.bouneter  by  "To 
put  off  his  cap  vnto."  For  these  aook-and-ciingings  the  1st  ed.  has  "  and 
cruok-and-cringings." 

190.  Oh!  there  is  one?  Suitors  were  doubtless  numerous  enough  last 
year.     It  is  useless  to  beg  favors  of  a  falling  house. 

195.  Comrades.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  comrade  ;"  and  in  202  "  What  said 
he?" 

220.  Close  the  doors,  etc.  Adolf,  who  has  already  had  one  tussle  with 
the  suitor,  means  to  go  again  into  the  vestibule  and  to  prevent  the  en- 
trance of  Valence  ;  but  he  is  not  quick  enough. 

222.  Cleves.  A  town  of  Rhenish  Prussia,  near  the  Rhine,  about  seventy 
miles  below  Cologne.  It  is  the  ancient  capital  of  the  Duchy  of  Cleves, 
which   was  long  a  disputed  possession  of  the  house  of  Prussia.     The 


23° 


COLOMBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 


Si  hw.inenburg,  the  old  castle  which  was  formerly  the  ducal  resident 
still  stands  on  a  height  in  the  centre  of  the  town.  It  derives  it*  name 
from  the  tradition  of  the  strange  knight  who  appeared  to  a  Duchen  <>t 
Cleves  in  a  vessel  drawn  by  a  swan,  and  whom  she  afterwards  married. 
The  story  is  the  subject  Of  a  poem  l>v  Southey  and  of  the  opera  o!  /,> 
In-ii^nn.  In  1882  the  "  Lohengrin  Monument"  was  erected  in  the  mar- 
ket-place to  commemorate  the  legend.  If  the  good  people  of  the  town 
are  going  to  do  honor  to  its  poetic  associations  in  this  way,  they  should 
some  day  set  up  a  memorial  to  Colombe  and  Valence,  whose  fame  will 
outlive  the  whole  line  of  their  ancient  dukes.  Cleves  is  only  a  few  miles 
from  the  Dutch  frontier,  and  is  a  favorite  summer  resort.  It  has  a  popu- 
lation of  about  ten  thousand. 

244.  O'  the.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  Of  the  ;"  and  in  the  next  line  "yourself" 
for  that  yon. 

263.  I  bear  a  brain.  Have  a  brain,  that  is,  am  not  a  fool.  Cf.  Shake- 
speare, R.  and  J.  i.  3.  29  :  "  Nay,  I  do  bear  a  brain,'  etc. 

There  is  a  frank  charm  about  Guibert's  cynicism.  Even  he  himself 
does  not  escape  its  stinging  lash. 

285.  Which,  if  I  procure.    The  1st  ed.  has  "  but  if  so  I  do." 

291.  /low  should  they  let  me  pause,  etc.  They  refers  to  miseries  in  the 
preceding  line. 

297.  From  Cleves  to  Juliers.    About  sixty  miles. 

312.  Intrust  him.     The  1st  ed.  italicizes  him. 

330,331.    This  being,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  reads: 

"  From  this  yourself  admit  the  custom  here, 
What  will  the  price  of  such  a  favor  be?" 

342.  Sursum  corda.  Let  us  lift  up  our  hearts,  take  courage.  The 
phrase  occurs  in  the  mass  just  before  the  consecration  of  the  Host. 

349.  Lace.  The  manufactures  of  Cleves  nowadays  are  chiefly  silk  and 
woollen  fabrics,  hosiery,  hats,  leather,  etc. 

353.  Marcasite.     A  crystallized  bisulphide  of  iron. 


ACT   II. 

A  curious  liberty  is  here  taken  of  going  back  in  point  of  time  to  show 
us  what  has  passed  for  the  Duchess  during  the  previous  act. 

4.  But  few  can  have  arrived.  The  1st  ed.  reads  :  "  but  if  there's  few 
arrived." 

17.  //  seemed  so  natural.  The  1st  ed.  has  "so  natural  it  seemed  ;" 
and  in  19  "leave  to  do  you  good."  It  does  not  contain  20.  In  25  it 
italicizes  We. 

32.  If  friends  detain  me.  Sabyne  has  just  been  delaying  the  audience 
in  the  vain  hope  that  more  subjects  might  arrive. 

38.  Some  foolish.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  Each  foolish  ;"  and  in  the  next 
line  "  More  foolish  and  more  arrogant  may  grow." 

65.  //  cannot  nor  it  shall  not  be.      The  double  negative  is  archaic.     Cf. 


ACT  //. 


231 


Hamlet,  i.  2.  158  :  "  It  is  not  nor  it  cannot  come  to  good."     In  iv.  325  be- 
low the  double  negative  of  the  1st  ed.  has  been  altered. 

66.  And  I  have  not.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  I  have  it  not." 

80.  Plainly,  I  feared  too  soon.  The  youth  of  the  Duchess  is  illustrated 
by  the  fact  that  one  smiling  compliment  (74)  suffices  to  dispel  her  fears. 
Suspicion  is  almost  impossible  to  her  young,  pure  heart. 

82.  The  vision  this  day  last  year  brought.  Trrts  is  our  first  hint  that 
Valence  has  seen  Colombe  before.  It  is  highly  characteristic  that  he 
should  not  have  mentioned  her  in  his  interview  with  the  courtiers. 

90.  She  was  above  it,  etc.  The  passage  is  intended  to  be  incoherent, 
with  its  wandering  pronouns  expressive  of  the  intense  excitement  of  the 
speaker.  This  is  a  free  paraphrase  of  it:  "Colombe  made  me  hers  at 
the  instant  when  I  cast  one  look  upon  her.  Her  spirit  stood  higher  than 
I  could  see ;  but,  having  had  ever  so  faint  a  glimpse  of  her,  I  could  not 
bend  my  eyes  lower  to  the  earth  again.  '  The  people  caught  her  generous 
gaze\  and  I  among  them.  Henceforth  she  was  mine — by  the  same  right 
by  which  the  worshipper  possesses  his  god.  But  perchance  she  had  not 
been  so  entirely  mine  had  she  not  raised  my  soul  before  she  vanished  to 
feel  more  keenly  the  people's  needs,  bequeathing  them  to  me  as  a  sacred 
trust."  One  can  but  remember  in  connection  with  this  fine  poetic  ex- 
pression of  the  way  in  which  love  for  one  entails  love  for  all  the  scene  in 
which  Christ  said  to  Peter,  "  Lovest  thou  me?"  • 

109.  Eat  first,  etc.     This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. 

112.  I  lived,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads:  "A  girl  one  happy  leisure  year 
I  lived."  In  1 13  it  omits  the  before  Duchess;  in  120  it  has  "  us  "  for  me; 
in  125  "  nor  less  do  they  deserve;"  and  in  140  it  omits  them. 

151.  Apparent  now  and  thus?  The  1st  ed.  has  "  which  now  and  thus 
I  know  ?'' 

165.  Church-flowers.  Lilies  and  other  flowers  of  religious  symbolism 
used  in  the  decoration  of  churches.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  gave  "  for  wrote. 

171.  Cod's  Mother.  The  image  of  the  Virgin,  whose  shrine  the  flower 
;-,  supposed  to  adorn. 

1 74.  Still,  I  do  thank  you.  The  1st  cd.  has  "  But  "  for  Still,  and  "  the  " 
for  my  in  the  next  line. 

176.  Here  lose,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads :  "  Till  losing  the  poor  relic  which 
even  yet,"  etc.  In  180  it  transposes  King's  and  Pope's  ;  and  in  185  it  has 
"  never  will  "  for  never  shall. 

202.   Gentles.     Cf.  Hen.  V.  prol.  8 :  "  But  pardon,  gentles  all,"  etc.     It  ■ 
1-  UMd  in  this  way  only  in  the  plural. 

207.  A  lion  crests  him,  etc  That  is,  forms  the  crest  of  his  coat-of- 
.11  in>,  or  \cutcheon;  the  motto  being  Scorning  to  waver. 

223.  Say  your  worst  of  me  !  That  is,  to  Bcrthold  when  he'eomes.  Cf. 
i.  363  above. 

229.   Give  you  pleasure.     The  1st  ed  has  "get"  fbl  five. 

249.  Starve  mr.v,  etc.  In  the  1st  cd.  the-  line  is:  "Arc  starving  now, 
and  will  lie  down  at  night." 

It'/i.it  ,////'.»,  etc.     This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. 

259.  In  nay  hundred.  The  1st  ed  h.ts"ln  every  hundred;"  and 
the  next  line  reads  :  "  That  you  have  limply  to  receive  their  wrongs." 


232 


COLOMBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 


263-268.  There  is  a  vision  .  .  .  mankind  below.  These  six  lines  are 
not  in  the  1st  ed. 

271.  Of  this  man,  etc.    The  1st  ed.has  *' Of  this — and  this — and  this?" 

288.  The  Marshal's,  etc.  The  three  offices  were  probably  held  by  the 
three  principal  courtiers.  The  Chamberlain,  who  regulates  court  eti- 
quette, may  well  have  been  the  smooth  Clugnet. 

296.    Thy  need.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  There  needs." 

309.  Our  wages,  etc.  The  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed.  In  312  it  has  "  wilh 
what  zeal,"  and  in  313  "  'T  was  money"  for  Hard  money. 

330.  Claim.     The  1st  ed.  has  "claimed  ;"  and  in  340  "give"  for  lend. 


ACT   III. 

3.  Aix.    That  is,  Aix-la-Chapelle. 

10.  Seneschal.    The  high  steward  or  chief  official  of  a  castle  or  barony. 

31.  Esteem.  The  1st  ed.  has  "esteemed;"  in  24  "but  a  short"  for 
not  a  long;  and  in  31  "apparent"  for  as  plain. 

27.  The  other,  etc.  This  other  kinsman  has  now  become  Pope.  Cf. 
54  below. 

40.  Remind  me,  etc.  In  the  1st  ed.  the  line  reads  :  "  Will  you  remind 
me  this  I  feel  and  say  ?" 

44.  Faced  the  redoubtables,  etc.  The  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed.  The 
next  there  reads :  "  Flattered  this,  threatened  that,  and  bribed  the  other." 

47.  Conquered  a  footing,  tic.  The  tst  ed.  has  "Conquered  yourself  a 
footing  inch  by  inch."  In  51  it  has  "  Safe  "  for  Shut ;  in  52  "  you  whom  " 
for  then  ;  whom ;  in  53  "  Narrowly  am  I  forced  to  search  ;"  in  54  "  So 
by  your  uncle  are  you  hid,  this  Pope  ;"  and  in  58  "  But "  for  Mutch. 

56.    Too  much  of  mere  Icgs-aiiu-.trms,  etc.     Cf.  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  viii.  : 

"  What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  woiks  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 
To  man  propose  this  test — 
The  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  in  its  lone  way?" 

63.  OScouomy.     The  old  etymological  spelling  of  economy. 

67.  The  day  before.  Not  to  be  taken  literally,  as  Treves  is  some 
eighty  miles  from  Aix  in  a  direct  line.     Cf.  134  below. 

68.  Why  do  you  let  your  life  slip  thus  ?  An  interesting  bit  of  psychol- 
ogy is  found  in  the  fact  that  Browning  makes  Melchior,  a  student,  the 
champion  of  action  in  preference  to  diplomacy. 

71.  Amelias.  An  Italian  philosopher  of  the  Neo-Platonic  school,  who 
flourished  in  the  latter  half  of  the  3d  century. 

76.  Ah!  Well,  etc.  Our  dramatic  credulity  is  somewhat  taxed  in  al- 
lowing Beithokl  an  argument  and  a  soliloquy  after  the  entrance  of  t h<- 
courtiers  before  he  makes  the  slightest  sign  of  observing  their  presence. 

80.  Of  joys,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads:  "Of  joys  and  Borrows — tuch  <1<  - 
gree  there  is."  It  does  not  have  the  next  line.  In  91  it  reads:  "To  lut 
fie,  let  advantages  alone  ;"  and  in  95  "  please  't  "  for  please. 


ACT  III. 


233 


108.    Truncheon.     Staff  of  office,  sceptre. 

113.  By  Paul,  the  advocate,  etc.     Valence  is  at  least  consistent. 

120.  So  must  I  end,  it  seems.     The  1st  ed.  has  "so  probably  I  end." 

130.  /;/  each  decorum,  etc.     In  the  etiquette  of  such  negotiations. 

142.  Did  they,  etc  The  1st  ed.  has  "  Did  he,"  etc. ;  and  in  153  "  have  " 
for  get. 

162.    Under  that  gray  convent  wall.     Cf.  86  above. 

In  this  passage  may  there  not  be  a  hint  of  the  Hamlet-nature  in  Ber- 
thold,  unable  to  act  except  under  the  supreme  stress  of  a  half-accidental 
emergency. 

176.  Your  people,  etc.  Not  only  these  hollow  courtiers,  but  the  people 
also,  who  may  worship  you  as  do  those  of  Cleves. 

179.  /  ruled  these.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  these  I  ruled  ;"  in  187  "  some  one 
of  those  about  me  ;"  in  191  "  So  "  for  Now  ;  and  in  204  "  but  a  day's  sole 
respite." 

214.  At  this  reception,  etc.  The  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. ;  and  the 
same  is  true  of  219  and  221.  In  215  we  find  there  "sakes"  for  sake,  and 
in  222  "of"  for  by. 

223-225.    Which  1 remember,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  reads: 

"  If  you  forgot  once,  I  remember  now ! 
But,  unrepelled,  attack  must  never  pass. 
Suffer,  through  you,  your  subjects  I  demand,"  etc 

23£-  When  is  matt  strong,  etc.  There  is  no  finer  line  in  the  play,  and 
no  profounder  truth  in  poetry. 

247,  248.  So  turns  our  lady,  etc.  These  two  lines  are  not  in  the  1st  ed. 
In  249  it  has  "So  I  am  first;"  in  250  "so  clear;"  in  260  "as  there;" 
and  in  263  "  'mongst  priests." 

262.  A  pillared  flame,  etc.     Cf.  Exod.  xiii.  21,  Numb.  xiv.  14,  etc. 

267.  For  whom.  The  1st  cd.  has  "  Whom  we  ;"  in  next  line  "  Would" 
for  We'd:  and  in  274  "The  chief"  for  Her  chief. 

281.  You  V say,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads  :  "They  love  each  other,  Gui- 
bert's  friend  and  she  !"  The  4th  Courtier  replies  "  Plainly  !"  and  the  5th 
Courtier  goes  on  with  "  I'ray,  Guibert,  what  is  next  to  do?"  The  rest  of 
the  text  between  281  and  284  does  not  appear  in  the  1st  ed. 

285.  /  laid.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  I  lay  ;"  and  in  287  "  And  now,  sir,  sim- 
ple knight  again  am  I." 

305-314.  You  hear  that?  .  .  .  at  last.  This  speech  of  Gaucelme's  is 
not  in  the  1st  ed. 

317.  That  fired,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  has  "That  fires,"  and  "will"  for 
would. 

326.  Ere  you  dream.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  Ere  now,  even ;"  and  in  328 
"  The  man  and  mood  are  gone."  It  does  not  contain  229.  fn  332  it  has 
"  was  "  for  seemed. 

349.  Aspire  to  rule.  The  1st  ed.  has  "Aspire  to  that;"  and  in  356 
"  At  night  the  Prince  you  meet." 

351.  Soul  and  body,  etc.  It  is  a  common  experience,  both  in  fiction 
and  in  fact,  that  a  great  emotion  quickens  all  the  (acuities  to  a  mature 
life.  Juliet,  for  instance,  ceases  to  be  a  child  in  the  very  moment  of  her 
joy. 


234 


COLOAfBE'S  BIRTHDAY. 


365.  Emprise.  Enterprise,  adventurousness.  The  dictionaries  do  not 
recognize  this  abstract  sense  of  the  word,  and  we  do  not  remember  meet- 
ing with  it  elsewhere. 

372,  373.  The  changed  voice,  etc.  These  two  lines  are  not  in  the  1st 
ed.  There  the  next  line  reads:  "  Reward,  that 's  little,  that  is  nought  to 
her." 

377.  Perchance, forbid.    The  1st  ed.  has  "forbid,  perchance." 


ACT   IV. 

I.  How  spring  this  mine  ?    Cf.  iii.  315— 319  above  and  50  below. 

14.  Loved  and  been  loz'ed.  That  Valence  had  loved  Colombe  is  plainly 
enough  said  in  act  iii. ;  but  there  is  but  one  line  so  far  (ii.  237)  to  inti- 
mate the  truth  of  the  other  half  of  the  assertion. 

16.  Their  stand.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  his  stand  ;"  in  18  "  in  his  way  by 
craft,  he  chose  ;"  and  in  20  "assist  him." 

21.  The  Duchess,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads:  "The  fruit  is,  she  prefers 
him  to  ourselves  ;"  in  22  "  the  simple  ground  ;"  in  23  "  First  seeing,  lik- 
ing more,  and  so  an  end  ;"  in  27  "  And  she  "  for  Herself ;  in  32  "  That " 
for  Who ;  and  in  39  "  Against  such  accident  that  will  provides." 

24.  But  as  we  all,  etc.  Prof.  Corson,  in  his  admirable  essay  on 
"Browning's  Obscurity,"  mentions  the  poet's  frequent  habit  of  omission. 
Here  the  prose  construction  would  be  "  As  if  we  all  had  started,"  etc. 
The  ellipsis  is  a  common  one  in  Shakespeare.     Cf.  Macbeth,  i.  4.  11  : 

"  To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  owed, 
As    t  were  a  careless  trifle,"  etc. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  Browning  is  much  more  elliptical  than 
Shakespeare,  though  he  is  more  so  than  Tennyson. 

42-48.  I  know  that .  .  .  set  aside.  These  seven  lines  are  not  in  the  1st 
ed.     Line  49  is  made  a  question  :  "lie  is  next  heir?" 

55.  On  your,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads:  "  Upon  unselfishness  that  pros- 
pered ill." 

57-77.  Wait,  I  suppose  .  .  .  renewed?  The  additions  and  alterations 
in  this  portion  of  the  text  are  so  many  that  we  give  it  in  full  as  it  stands 
in  the  1st  ed.  : 

"  Guibert.  Wait,  I  suppose,  till  Valence  weds  our  lady. 
And  then  apprize  the  Prince— 

Gaucelmi.  Ere  then,  retired? 

Tell  the  Prince  now,  sir  1     Ay,  this  very  night— 
Ere  he  accepts  his  dole  and  goes  his  way, 
Tell  what  has  been,  declare  what  's  like  to  be, 
And  really  makes  him  all  he  feigned  himself; 
Then  trust  his  gratitude  for  the  surprise! 

Guibert.  Good!     I  am  sure  she'll  not  disown  her  love, 
Throw  Valence  up— I   wonder  you  see  that  ! 

Gaucehne.  The  shame  of  it— the  suddenness  and  shame! 
With  Valence  there  to  keep  her  to  her  word, 
And  Berihold's  own  reproaches  or  disgust    ■ 
We  'II  try  it  !  -Not  that  we  can  venture  much  ! 


ACT  IV.  2J5 

Her  confidence  we  've  lost  forever -his 
Must  be  to  gain  I 

Guibert.  To-night,  then,  venture  we  I 

Yet— may  a  lost  love  never  be  renewed?" 

64.  Than  trust  his  gratitude,  etc.  The  said  gratitude  naturally  to  be 
shown  by  rewarding  the  bearers  of  the  pleasant  surprise. 

68.  I  wonder  you  see  that.  Gaucelme  and  Guibert  never  are  willing  to 
allow  a  virtue  or  a  delicacy  to  each  other.  This  line  has  a  scornful  em- 
phasis on  you. 

78.  Smarting-  while.  Cf.  breathing  •-vhile  (Rich.  III.  i.  3.  60,  etc.)  and 
similar  compounds. 

81.  A  mimic,  etc  The  1st  ed.  has  "A  mimic  of  the  joint,  and  just  so 
like." 

88-90.  Exulting  that,  etc.     For  these  three  lines  the  1st  ed.  has: 

"  Waits  here  to  boast  their  scheme  succeeds  !  -We  'II  hence— 
And  perfect  ours!    To  the  Archives  and  the  Hall!" 

91.  You  have  not  smiled,  etc.     Cf.  i.  113  above. 

101-104.  But,  suffered  .  .  .  as  well.    For  these  four  lines  the  1st  ed.  has  ; 

"  But,  suffered  rule  first  by  these  Kings  and  Popes 
To  serve  some  devil's- purpose, — now  'tis  gained. 
To  serve  some  devil's-purpose  must  withdraw!'' 

107.  On  us.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  to  us  ;"  in  1 10  and  in"  them  "  (or you  ■• 
in  1 16  "  If  no  prayer  breathe  ;"  and  in  1 19  "  I  had  not  looked  for  you." 
122-125.  And  yet .  .  .  decide  011 — .     The  1st  ed.  reads  : 

"  Valence.  And  yet  I  scarce  know  wherefore  that  prevents 
Disclosing  it  to  you — disclosing  even 
What  she  determines — " 

132.  A  cottage.    The  1st  ed.  has  "  a  hovel." 

137.  At  first.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  I  first ;"  and  in  the  next  line  "  Before 
our  late  appointment,  sir,  I  come."     In  142  it  has  "Of  the  lady." 

150.  Your  hand!    A  bewildered  repetition  of  his  former  speech  (144). 

154.  Burgiaves,  Landgraves,  Markgraves.  German  titles  of  nobility 
(Bnrggraf,  Landgraf,  Markgraf),  the  last  being  commonly  Anglicized  as 
M«trgrmn< 

157.  Chrysoprase.  A  precious  variety  of  chalcedony,  of  an  apple-green 
color  in  the  finest  specimens. 

158.  Talk  of.  The  1st  ed.  has  "tell  me;"  in  161  "The  match  will  in- 
fluence many  fortunes  here  ?"  and  in  162  "  A  natural  enough  solicitude." 

168.   To  rule,  etc.     This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. 

171.  Cray.  The  1st  ed.  has  "grew,"  which  was  undoubtedly  a  mis- 
print for  "grey."     It  cannot  be  =  grewsome. 

172.  Demean  herself.  Degrade  herself.  Skeat  is  doubtless  right  in 
regarding  this  demean  as  the  demean  =. conduct  {cf.  demeanour)  "altered 
in  sense  owing  to  an  obvious  (but  absurd)  popular  etymology  which  allied 
the  word  to  the  English  piean,  base ;"  but  it  is  used  by  not  a  few  good 
writers  of  our  day.  Wb.  cites  an  example  of  it  from  Shakespeare  (C.  of 
R.  iv  3  83) : 


236  COLOA/BE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

"  Now.  out  of  doubt  Antipholus  is  mad, 
Else  would  he  never  so  demean  himself  ;" 

but  there,  as  elsewhere  in  the  plays,  it  clearly  has  the  other  meaning. 

180.  I  see  you  have  them,  etc.  The  line  is  not  in  the  1st  eel.;  neither  is 
188  below.  In  183  that  ed.  has  "In  my  ambition's  course  —  say,  rocky 
course." 

186.  Duke  Luitpohf  s  brazen  self .     His  bronze  statue. 

189.  And  to  this,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  reads  :  "To  this  claim  be  it,  in  the 
Hall  to-night ;"  in  193  "  What  falls  away,  if  not  my  faith  in  her  ?"  and  in 
196  "  Dare  I  to  test  her  now, — or  had  I  faith." 

202-204.    What  J  seem,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  reads  : 

"  What  I  now 
Begin,  a  simple  woman  now,  to  be, 
Hope  that  I  am,— for,  now  my  rights  are  void,"  etc. 

208.  He  gathers,  etc.  The  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed.,  where  the  speech 
begins  thus : 

"  Valence.  He  stands,  a  man.  now;  stately,  strong,  and  wise — 
One  great  aim,  like  a  guiding-star,  before  — 
Which  tasks  strength,  wisdom,  stateliness  to  follow, 
As,  not  its  substance,  but  its  shine  he  tracks, 
Nor  dreams  of  more  than,  just  evolving  these 
To  fulness,  will  suffice  him  to  life's  end. 
After  this  star,"  etc. 

In  this  lofty  speech  are  "some  things  hard  to  be  understood; "  but  on 
the  whole  it  seems  best  not  to  attempt  a  paraphrase  of  it.  If  one  keeps 
in  mind  how  high  is  Berthold's  ambition,  it  may  be  followed,  with  a  little 
patience. 

227.  Grade.    The  word  is  etymologically  equivalent  to  step. 

236.  On  the  other  half.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  with  "  for  on  ;  in  the  next 
line  "So  shall  he  go  on,  every  day's  success  ;"  in  239  "airy"  for  aery ; 
and  in  240  "shall  grow  "  for  lends  help. 

242.  His  step  or  stalk.     His  friendly  or  his  hostile  approach. 

245-249.    Till  even  .  .  .  he  end*.     For  these  five  lines  the  1st  ed.  has : 

"  Till  even  his  power  shall  cease  his  power  to  be, ' 
And  most  his  weakness  men  shall  tear,  nor  vanquish 
Their  typified  invincibility. 
So  shall  he  go  on,  so  at  last  shall  end."  etc 

The  first  four  lines  of  the  passage  as  it  now  stands  are  most  subtle.  A 
moment's  reflection  shows,  however.how  true  they  are.  For  example,  Ger- 
many does  not  tremble  half  so  much  to-day  at  the  strong  rule  of  Bis- 
marck as  she  trembles  at  the  thought  of  his  possible  illness  and  death. 
"  Men  shall  dread  his  weakness  more."  The  subject  of  dure  is  their 
earth  ;  that  is,  "man's  earth  dares  not  put  in  peril  its  bravest,  first  and 
best."  If  this  typified  invincibility  should  fail,  there  would  be  no  safety 
else. 

251.  The  fiery  centre,  etc.  Alluding  to  the  theory  that  the  central  parts 
of  our  earth  are  in  a  state  of  fiery  fusion. 

258.  '7'  was  a  man.  The  1st  ed.  has  "A  man  't  was;"  in  267  "so 
might  love"  for  love  might  10;  in  270  "Give  counsel  "  for  Desire  that; 
and  in  272  "  say  more  "  for  affirm. 


ACT  V. 


237 


264.  Thanks,  Berthold,  etc.  Colombe  alludes  to  the  provision  of  her 
father's  will  (see  39  above),  which  gives  the  kingdom  to  the  next  of  right, 
should  she  wed  beneath  her  rank.  Berthold's  hand  will  not  degrade  her 
•>—at  least  technically,  according  to  the  terms  of  the  late  Duke's  will. 

282.  I  could  have  kept  my  rule.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  my  rule  I  could  have 
kept ;"  in  284  "  Yet  abjured  all.  This  Berthold  does  for  you  ;"  and  in 
291  "and"  for  yet. 

288.  Had  gone  with  love's  presentment,  etc.  The  words  and  looks  with 
which  Berthold  offered  this  most  serious  of  gifts  had  not  so  much  grace 
in  them  as  would  have  gone  with  the  most  trifling  service  from  a  real 
lover. 

304.  So  to  Berthold  back  again.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  So  of  Berthold's 
proposition ;"  in  310  "both"  for  them;  in  316  "single"  for  only,  and 
"were"  for  spoke;  in  322  "a  cause"  for  great  cause ;  and  in  325  "Nor 
will  not"  (cf.  ii.  65  above)  for  And  -will  not. 

340.  Away.'   Used  figuratively  of  course,  like  above. 

341.  Brave.  In  the  old  sense  of  beautiful,  admirable.  Cf.  what  Mi- 
randa says  at  the  first  view  of  Ferdinand  (  Tempest,  i.  2.  400) :  "  It  carries 
a  brave  form.     But  't  is  a  spirit." 

354.  So  to  speak.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  somehow  ;"  and  in  367  "  that  awe  " 
for  the  awe. 

357.  Assurance.  Not  from  the  unknown  lady,  but  from  himself;  a 
hint  to  be  bolder.  * 

379.  A  nobler  cause.  The  1st  ed.  has  "a  meaner  cause,"  and  adds  the 
line  "  Whence  rising,  its  effects  may  amply  show."  In  384  and  385  it 
has  "  that  "  for  who. 

381.  The  rest's  unsaid  again.  Not  so  easily,  as  Valence  makes  appear 
in  his  next  speech. 

387,  388.  With  all  hearts,  etc.  All  feeling  it  most  thrillingly,  but  none 
daring  to  speak  of  it. 

396.  Would  a  crown  gild  it,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  What  would  a 
crown  gild,"  etc. 

402.  Love  since,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  Love  as  you  pleased  love  !  All 
is  cleared — a  stage."  There  is  no  pause  at  the  end  of  the  next  line,  and 
404  begins  "  For  you."     In  405  speak  is  "  say." 


ACT  V. 

2.  Amelias.     See  on  iii.  71  above. 

3.  This  grand  disclosure.    The  offer  of  his  hand  to  Colombe.     Cf.  iv. 
144  fol.  above. 

4.  Oh!    The  1st  ed.  has  "Oh! — he,"  etc.      On  spokesman  with  the 
forehead,  cf.  i.  212  above. 

9.  Perhaps  I  had,  etc.     This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. ;  neither  is  19 
below. 

vning  docs  not  mean  us  to  forget  that,  with  all  his  manly  quali- 
;  <  rthold  has  committed  the  poet's  unpardonable  sin.     He  has  dt- 


238  COLO  MB  EPS  IUKTUDAY. 

nied  the  right  of  that  internal  voice  which  counsels  love.  For  a  brief 
perfect  illustration  of  Browning's  contempt  for  this  especial  weakne>s, 
see  Youth  and  Art  (our  Select  Poems,  p.  85),  and  Dis  Aliter  Visum  : 

"  Let  the  mere  starfish  in  his  vault 
Crawl  in  a  wash  of  weed,  indeed, 
Rose-jacynth  to  the  finger-tips: 

He,  whole  in  body  and  soul,  outstrips 
Man,  found  with  either  in  default. 

But  what  's  whole  can  increase  no  more, 

Is  dwarfed  and  dies,  since  here  's  its  sphere. 

The  devil  laughed  at  you  in  his  sleeve  I 
You  knew  not?    That  I  will  believe; 

Or  you  had  saved  two  souls— nay,  four." 

10.  The  unfriended.  The  1st  ed.  omits  the.  Line  13  reads  :  "  My  uncle 
chokes  in  his  next  coughing-fit ;"  in  14  we  find  "  King  Philip  "  for  King- 
cousin  ;  in  17  "past  o'er  "  for  derpast ;  in  18  "safer"  for  safe. 

22.  Elude  the  adventure.  Melchior  likes  as  little  this  easy  way  out  of 
the  difficulty  by  the  device  of  marriage  as  he  liked  the  submission  of  Ju- 
liers  without  a  struggle.  He  has  set  his  heart  upon  some  situation  which 
shall  tax  and  develop  and  demonstrate  the  powers  of  Berthold. 

28.  We  seem,  in  Europe,  etc.  A  free-and-easy  but  very  shrewd  refer- 
ence to  revolutionary  tendencies  in  Europe  and  the  possible  results  for 
hereditary  rulers.  The  figure  of  the  masquerade  is  capitally  carried  out, 
and  is  withal  in  admirable  keeping  with  Berthold's  character.  The  crit- 
ics who  find  him  lacking  in  intellectual  power,  or  a  mere  foil  to  Valence, 
are  commended  to  the  study  of  this  speech. 

42.  And,  after  brea thing,  etc.  This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. ;  and  the 
next  has  "  And  thinks  "  for  Means  to. 

49.  For  somewhat.  The  1st  ed.  omits  for — apparently  an  accident.  In 
51  it  has  "eyes"  for  soul ;  in  54  "better  's"  for  better ;  in  55  "So  be  it ! 
Yet,  proceed  my  way  the  same  ;"  and  in  56  "end"  for  ends. 

68.  So  bold,  etc.  This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. ;  and  the  same  is  true 
of  70.  In  71  that  ed.  has  "And"  for  'Tis  ;  in  72  "see"  for  wait ;  in  75 
"  Before  my  uncle  could  obtain  the  ear ;"  in  76  "superior,  help  me,"  etc. ; 
and  in  82  "  gallant "  for  lover. 

72.  My  true  worth.     From  a  worldly  point  of  view. 

77.  Priscilla.     Cf.  iii.  86  above. 

104.  To  your  intellect.  The  1st  ed.  has  "to  intelligence  ;"  in  the  next 
line  "a"  for  your ;  and  in  114  "  Under  the  sun  and  in  the  air, — at  last," 
etc. 

109-116.  Like  waters,  etc.  There  could  not  be  a  better  description  of 
certain  lakes  in  Italy  which  owe  their  origin  to  earthquakes  or  volcanic 
action.  Even  Lake  Avemus,  the  ancient  gateway  of  hell,  is  now  a  very 
gem  of  placid  loveliness. 

129.  Profession.  The  1st  ed.  has  "professions;"  In  138  "at  first"  for 
so  promptly  ;  in  145  "  more  leisurely  "  for  befittingly  :  and  in  146  "  Would  " 
for  Did,  and  "off"  for  forth. 

147.    The  good,  etc.     This  line  is  not  in  the  1st  ed. 

151-153.  Decide!  .  .  .  the  Duchess!    The  1st  ed.  reads  thus: 


ACT  V. 

"  Now  either 
Hail  to  the  Empress— farewell  to  the  Lady !" 


239 


155  Almost  upon  court-license  trespassing.     See  on  ii.  288  above. 

162.  Then  yourself,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  ends  the  speech  with  "  then  your- 
self— "  Berthold  breaking  in  with  "  What  insolence !"  In  169  below  it 
has  "  Had  made  "  for  Could  make. 

189.  For  each  conjuncture.  The  reading  of  the  1st  ed.,  for  which  the 
ed.  of  1885  misprints  "  For  each  conjecture." 

195.  Actions.  The  1st  ed.  has  "action  ;"  in  205  "  But  how"  for  Htm 
much  ;  in  207  "  When  next  a  keeper  for  my  own  's  to  seek  ;"  in  211  "ar- 
gue "  for  phrase  it ;  and  in  220  "  other  "  for  alien. 

205.  How  much  indebted,  etc.  One  of  the  most  frequent  causes  of 
Browning's  obscurity  is  the  peculiar  inversion  which  he  practises.  Order 
of  arrangement  in  a  sentence  seems  less  important  to  him  than  to  other 
English  writers.  Perhaps  his  wide  linguistic  knowledge  may  be  partly 
accountable  for  this.  Shakespeare  had  a  certain  advantage  in  knowing 
"  small  Latin  and  less  Greek."  In  the  present  passage  the  sense  is  sim- 
ply this  :  "How  much  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  revealing  your  true  abil- 
ity in  the  way  of  keeping  secrets  will  be  discovered  to  you  when  I  have 
myself  secrets  to  keep."  * 

233.  Affections  all  repelled,  etc  A  man  of  affairs  so  large  will  have  no 
time  for  the  nurture  of  the  affections,  even  were  he  foolishly  to  plant  them 
now. 

241.  1'alence  holds,  of  <oursel  In  the  1st  ed.  this  speech  is  given  to 
"Courtiers."  In  243  that  ed.  has  "still"  for  yet;  and  in  248  "comes" 
for  speaks. 

244.    To  tamely  acquiesce.     See  on  Blot,  ii.  28. 

253.  Prince's.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  Prince  ;"  in  258  "  So  I  shall  speak ;" 
and  in  260  "  trouble's  "  for  trouble. 

275.  Once,  to  surprise  the  angels.     Cf.  Shakespeare,  M.  for  M.  ii.  2. 12 1: 

"  but  man,  proud  man, 
****** 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep,  who,  with  our  spleens, 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal." 

276.  Recording,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  has  "Might  record,  hug  themselves 
they  chose  not  so  ;"  and  in  279  "  Could  have  the  "  for  Can  have  such. 

287.  They  say,  etc  The  1st  ed.  has  "The  lady's  hand  your  service 
claims,  they  say;"  in  294  "this"  for  one ;  in  303  "it"  for  noise ;  and  in 
321  "  your  own  "  for  love's  right. 

33 1 1  332-    He  holds  you,  etc     The  1st  ed.  reads: 

"  He  has  you — you.  the  form. 
And  you,  the  mind,  where  self-love  made  such  room,"  etc. 

In  335  it  has  "  you  "  for  old ;  and  in  347  "  For  his  sake  and  for  yours." 
349.  35°>  One  last  touch,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  has  : 

"  One  last  touch  of— 

[After  a  Muse,  presenting  his  (**(**  ,0  '*'  Prince. 
Redress  the  wrongs  of  Cleves  !" 


240 


A   SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 


362.  Too  cosily  a  flower,  etc.  Cf.  iv.  184  above.  The  1  st  ed.  baa  "  wen 
you  "  for  were  this  ;  and  in  365  "  rule  "  for  Duchy. 

380.  Barnabite.  A  monk  of  the  order  of  St.  Barnabas — an  unwelcome 
substitute  for  the  Duke. 

386.  Plod.  The  1st  ed.  has  "go." 


A    SOUL'S   TRAGKDY. 

This  drama  was  first  published  in  1846  (with  Lttria)  as  No.  VIII.  of 
Bells  and  Pomegranates.     The  number  had  the  following  dedication  :  * 
I   DEDICATE 
THESE  LAST  ATTEMPTS   EOR  THE   PRESENT   AT    DRAMATIC    POETRY 

STo   a  (Kvcat   Qramatfc   $)oct ; 

"WISHING   WHAT   I    WRITE   MAY    BE    KKAI)    RY    HIS    LIGHT" — 
IF  A   PHRASE  ORIGINALLY   ADDRESSED,  P.Y   NOl'  TDK   LEAST  WORTHY  OF 
HIS  con TB M  po R a  R 1 1- :s, 
TO    SHAKESPEARE, 
MAY   BE  APPLIED   HERE,  BY   ONE   WHOSE   SOLE   PRIVILEGE    IS   A   GRATE- 
FUL  AMBITION, 
TO  WALTER     SAVAGE  LANDOR. 
March  29,  1846. 
In  a  letter,  acknowledging  the  dedication,  Landor  said  : 

"  Accept  my  thanks  for  the  richest  of  Easter  offerings  made  to  any  one 
for  many  years.  I  stayed  at  home  last  evening  on  purpose  to  read  Luna, 
and  if  I  lost  my  good  music  (as  I  certainly  did)  I  was  well  compensated 
in  kind.  To-day  I  intend  to  devote  two  rainy  hours  entirely  to  //  Soul's 
Tragedy.  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  find  it  as  excellent  as  Luria  I  You 
have  conferred  too  high  a  distinction  on  me  in  your  graceful  inscription. 
I  am  more  of  a  dramatist  in  prose  than  in  poetry.  .  .  .  Go  on  and  pass  us 
poor  devils  !  If  you  do  not  go  far  ahead  of  me,  I  will  crack  my  whip  at 
ou  and  make  you  spring  forward.  So,  to  use  a  phrase  of  Queen  Eliza- 
eth,  Yours  as  you  demean  yourself,  VY.  I.amhjr." 

No.  VIII.  of  Bells  and  Pomegranates  contained  also  the  following 
preface : 

"  Here  ends  my  first  series  of  Bells  and  Pomegranates :  and  I  take  the 
opportunity  of  explaining,  in  reply  to  inquiries,  that  I  only  meant  by  that 
title  to  indicate  an  endeavor  towards  something  like  an  alternation,  or 
mixture,  of  music  with  discoursing,  sound  with  sense,  poetry  with  thought ; 
which  looks  too  ambitious,  thus  expressed,  so  the  symbol  was  preferred. 


E 


*  This  was  afterwards  made  the  dedication  to  Luria,  "these  last  attempts"  bei»g 
changed  \f>  "  this  last  attempt,"  as  stated  on  p.  9  above. 


ACT  /. 


241 


It  is  little  to  the  purpose,  that  such  is  actually  one  of  the  most  familiar  of 
the  many  Rabbinical  (and  Patristic)  acceptations  of  the  phrase  ;  because 
I  confess  that,  letting  authority  alone,  I  supposed  the  bare  words,  in  such 
juxtaposition,  would  sufficiently  convey  the  desired  meaning.  '  Faith  and 
good  works '  is  another  fancy,  for  instance,  and  perhaps  no  easier  to  arrive 
at :  yet  Giotto  placed  a  pomegranate-fruit  in  the  hand  of  Dante,  and  Raf- 
faelle  crowned  his  Theology  (in  the  Camera  delta  Segnatura)  with  blossoms 
of  the  same  ;  as  if  the  Bellari  and  Vasari  would  be  sure  to  come  after,  and 
explain  that  it  was  merely  '  simbolo  Jelle  buoiie  opere — il  qual  Pomogra- 
uato  fu  perb  usato  nelle  vesti  del  Pontefice  appresso  gli  Ebrei."         R.  B." 

On  the  title  of  A  Soul's  Tragedy,  see  p.  55  above,  and  compare  what 
Browning  says  in  the  dedication  of  Sordello  to  M.  Milsand,  written  in 
1863,  or  twenty-three  years  after  it  was  published  :  "  The  historical  dec- 
oration was  purposely  of  no  more  importance  than  a  background  requires ; 
and  my  stress  lay  on  the  incidents  in  the  development  of  a  soul :  little  else 
is  worth  study  ;  I  at  least  always  thought  so." 


ACT   I. 


The  heading  in  the  1st  ed.  is  "  Part  I."  The  alterations  in  more  re- 
cent eds.  are  few  compared  with  those  in  the  Plot  and  Colombe. 

2.  The  ave-bell.  Rung  about  half  an  hour  after  sunset  as  a  signal  to 
the  people  to  repeat  the  Ave-Maria. 

49.  We  please.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  we  're  pleased." 

60.  At  church.     That  is,  when  christened. 

61.  Each.    The  1st  ed.  has  "One." 

72.  Gauntlet-gatherer.  Champion  ;  taking  up  in  their  behalf  the  gaunt- 
lets thrown  down  by  their  enemies. 

77.  IVonnd-inflictors.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  their  inflictors." 

94  FactiM.  A  town  in  Italy  (the  ancient  Eiventia),  twenty  miles  to 
the  southwest  of  Ravenna.  It  was  annexed  to  the  States  of  the  Church 
in  1509  by  Pope  Julius  II.  In  the  15th  century  it  was  the  seat  of  impor- 
tant ceramic  manufactures  (recently  revived),  whence  the  French  name 
faieiue  for  certain  wares  in  that  line.  The  population  is  now  about 
twenty  thousand. 

117.  Nor  mine.     The  1st  ed.  has  *'  Or  mine." 

126,127.   Your  prosperous  smooth  lover,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  reads  thus: 

"  Your  prosperous  smooth  husband  presently, 
Then,  scarce  your  wooer— now,  your  lover  :  well — " 

129.  Afy  eye  grew  dim.     The  1st  ed.  has  "eyes,"  and  also  in  133  below. 

137.  The  fault  '/  there?  The  1st  ed.  has  "Oh.  the  fault  was  there?" 
whkh  makes  the  line  a  foot  too  long  (cf.  note  on  Blot,  iii.  I.  183).  In  144 
it  his  "oh  "  for  why. 

153  By  fascination.  In  spite  of  myself,  as  if  under  the  influence  of 
some  fascination,  or  enchantment.  % 

161.  As  next.     The  1st  ed.  has '"As  to;"  and  in  181  "to  spurn"  for 
why  spurn. 
|6 


242 


A    SOUL'S    TRAGEDY. 


198.  Nor  misstii  a  cloak,  etc.  That  is,  had  to  make  no  sacrifices  in 
doing  it. 

207.  By  chance.     The  1st  ed.  has  "for  once." 

214.  /  would  better.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  I  had  better,"  which  good  old 
English  idiom  it  had  been  better  to  retain.  Cf.  our  Select  Poems  of  Brown- 
ing, p.  194,  note  on  78. 

217.  The  natural.  The  1st  ed.  has  "its  natural;"  in  219  "So"  for 
Thus;  and  in  224  "  they  woke"  for  awake. 

231.  The  Lugo  path.  The  road  to  Lugo,  a  town  about  ten  miles  north 
of  Kaenza  and  twenty  west  of  Ravenna.  It  takes  its  name  from  the  an- 
cient Lucas  Diana,  the  site  of  which  it  is  supposed  to  occupy. 

234.  Help  from.     The  1st  ed.  has  "helping." 

258.  Spring  shall  plant,  etc.     Cf.  Gen.  viii.  22. 

272.  Loves.  The  1st  ed.  has  "loved  ;"  in  275  "  I  have  run  a  risk — my 
God  !"  in  276  "  How  "  for  For  ;  in  277  "  his  sentence  ;"  and  in  278  "  and 
exiles  you  "  for  exiles  yourself 

286.  Ill-success.  Cf.  Rich.  III.  iv.  4.  236:  "dangerous  success  ;"  Sid- 
ney, Arcadia:  "my  heart  misgave  me  some  evil  successe,"  etc.  The 
original  meaning  of  the  word  was  issue  or  result — that  which  succeeds  in 
point  of  time.  Bacon  {Adv.  of  L.  ii.  4.  2)  speaks  of  "the  successes  and 
issues  of  actions." 

316.  Promise.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  say  that." 

332.  The  glowing  trip-hook,  thttmbscrews,  and  the  gadge.  The  trip-hook 
and  the  gadge  are  obviously  instruments  of  tortuie,  like  the  thumbscrews, 
but  neither  word  is  to  be  found  in  the  dictionaries. 

338.  My  coarse  disguise.     Referring  to  the  cloak  he  has  on. 

340.  Argeuta.  A  small  town  eighteen  miles  southeast  of  Ferrara,  or 
about  half-way  between  Lugo  and  that  city.  The  only  San  Nicolo  that 
we  can  find  in  that  part  of  Italy  is  a  village  on  the  road  from  Faenza  to 
Bologna,  twenty  miles  or  more  directly  west  of  Lugo,  while  Argenta  is  al- 
most directly  north.  Cf.  the  inconsistencies  in  the  famous  ride  from 
Ghent  to  Aix  as  noted  in  our  Select  Poems  of  Browning,  p.  164. 

351.  You  escape.     The  1st  ed.  has  "you  '11  escape." 

386.  Come  up.  The  1st  ed.  repeats  "  come  down  ;"  and  in  the  next  line 
it  has  "  come  forth  "  for  come  out. 


ACT   II. 

7.  He  the  nao  Provost  ?  The  1st  ed.  italicizes  He;  in  11  it  has  "  usage  " 
for  custom  ;  in  13  "  old"  for  late  ;  and  in  21  "so  when  "  for  and  when. 

30.  San  Cassiano.  There  is  a  village  of  this  name  south  of  Lake  Gar- 
da,  not  far  from  Solferino. 

35.  Brutus  the  Elder.  Who  drove  the  Tarquins  from  Rome,  but  did 
not  make  himself  king  in  their  stead. 

42.  Dico  vobis.     I  tell  you. 

49.  St.  Nepomucene.  St.  John  Nepomuc,  as  he  was  called  from  his 
birthplace  (a  small  town  in  Bohemia),  the  patron  saint  of  his  native 


ACT  II. 


243 


country,  and  especially  honored  in  Prague  the  capital.     Cf.  Longfellow, 
Golden  Legend,  i. : 

*'  Like  Saint  John  Nepomuck  in  stone 
Looking  down  into  a  stream." 

63.  I  do  not  dislike  finding  somebody,  etc.  Like  the  man  who  was  tired 
of  hearing  Aristides  called  the  Just. 

79.  Cur fremuere  gentes  ?  The  beginning  of  the  second  Psalm  in  the 
Vulgate. 

89.  Resort.     The  1st  ed.  has  "resorts." 

93.  Heading  nor  hanging.  Cf.  Shakespeare,  M.for  M.  ii.  1.250:  "it 
is  but  heading  and  hanging,"  etc. 

103.  And  this  so  earnestly,  etc.  The  Provost  does  not  wish  to  expose 
Luitolfo. 

105.  Late  last  evening.  The  1st  ed.  has  "so  late  that  evening;"  and 
just  below  "And  thus  ran  he  on,  easily  and  volubly,"  etc. 

124.  Ay,  in  that  I  agree.     The  1st  ed.  omits  Ay. 

143.  Which  are  aft.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  that  are  apt ;"  and  in  147  it 
omits  for,  putting  a  dash  in  its  place. 

168.  Luitolfo 's  wealth.  The  1st  ed.  has  "goods"  for  wealth ;  in  175 
"  injunctions  "  for  injunction  ;  and  in  178  "  Yet  if  what "  for  But  if  this. 

174.  In  urgent  danger.  She  did  not  mean  bodily  danger,  as  Luitolfo 
supposed. 

216.  Ought  I  not  make,  etc.  The  1st  ed.  has  "Ought  I  not  rather 
make,"  omitting  the  rather  in  next  line  ;  in  219  it  has  "  But"  for  Since, 
with  a  colon  instead  of  the  comma  in  the  next  line ;  in  226  fol.  "nor  in 
finding  the  so  many  and  so  various  loves  united  in  the  love  of  a  woman — 
finding  all  uses  in  one  instrument,"  etc. ;  and  in  230  "  I  shall  give  the  in- 
tellectual part  of  my  love  to  men,  the  mighty  dead  or  illustrious  living," 
etc. 

234.  Nay  I  only  think,  what  do  I  lose?  The  1st  ed.  has  "love  "  for 
lose,  apparently  a  misprint ;  and  in  241  "and  to  which"  (ox yet  to  which. 

297.    Thus  God  serves  us.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  So  God,"  etc. 

304.  The  western  lands.  The  recently  discovered  America.  It  will  be 
borne  in  mind  that  the  time  is  the  16th  century. 

314.  Principles.  The  1st  ed.  has  "principle;"  and  in  329  "why"  for 
sirs. 

338.   To  newly  consider.     See  on  Blot,  ii.  28  above.     Cf.  491  below. 

341.   Thus, you  see.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  So,  you  see." 

363.  Advocators.  A  word  to  be  found  in  none  of  the  dictionaries  except 
the  New  Eng.  Diet,  where  this  is  the  only  passage  quoted  for  this  mean- 
ing. It  was  used  in  the  15th  century  in  the  sense  of  intercessor,  patron 
(saint). 

368.  Spend  their  life.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  spent "  for  spend,  and  "gave  " 
for  give  in  next  line. 

380.  May  enlarge.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  must  enlarge." 

388.  His  cheeses.     See  I  Sam.  xvii.  18. 

395.  AfUr,     Ct  Ion  pat,  ii.  2.  IO:  "And  after  bite  me,"  etc. 

408.  Higher  forms  of  matter.  The  1st  ed.  omits  oj  matter;  and  in  424 
it  has  "  there  is"  for  there  follows. 


244  A  SOUL'S   TRAGEDY. 

439.  Profane  vulgar.  The  "  profanum  vulgus "  of  Horace  {0</.  iii. 
1.  1). 

452.  Generally.  The  1st  ed.  has  "  usually  ;"  and  in  465-471  it  has  the 
second  person  for  the  first — "  you  "  for  us  and  we,  and  "  your  "  for  our. 

491.   To  July  enforce.     See  on  338  above. 

495.  Are  you,  etc.     The  1st  ed.  has  "  You  are,"  etc. 

555.  Let  whoso  thinketli,  etc.     See  1  Cor.  x.  12. 

562.  Yon  must  get  better.  The  1st  cd.  has  "will"  for  must;  in  565 
"would  really  seem"  for  would  seem;  and  in  577  "will  thank"  for 
thanks. 

581.  Nearly  out  of  sight,  like  our  friend  Chiappino  yonder.  The  vital 
importance  of  critical  moments  is  Browning's  favorite  theme.  The  char- 
acter must  be  prepared  by  long,  patient  training  for  "  ihe  stress  and  strain  " 
of  an  unforeseen  and  half-unrecognized  occasion.  The  power  to  judge  of 
the  real  ethical  value  of  any  given  act  is  strengthened  if  not  positively 
created  by  years  of  careful  study  of  the  relations  of  conduct  and  of  people. 
This  observation  must  be  unselfish  as  well  as  keen.  No  better  example 
can  be  found  of  all  these  general  considerations  than  the  character  of  Chi- 
appino in  A  Soul's  Tragedy.  He  is  equal  to  one  lofty  choice.  He  takes 
upon  himself  the  act  of  Luitolfo  when  he  supposes  that  to  do  so  is  to  meet 
death  in  one  of  its  most  hideous  forms.  He  bears  the  test  of  torturing 
adversity.  But  at  the  next  step  he  falters.  The  importance  of  truth — 
where  an  instant  before  a  lie  has  been  the  truest  heroism — he  does  not 
see.     This  time  the  moment  does  not  seem  to  him  important — 

"To-morrow  .  .  . 
We  easily  shall  make  him  full  amends." 

One  is  reminded  of  the  line  in  Lowell's  great  Present  Crisis:  "Never 
shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judgment  hath  passed  by." 

So  by  the  one  treacherous  casting,  fixed  only  half-consciously  in  its 
place,  the  whole  structure  of  character  is  made  unsafe,  and  presently 
topples  to  destruction.  Browning,  like  Shakespeare,  seldom  shows  us  a 
veritable  tragedy — a  soul  lost  beyond  the  possibility  of  recall.  Even 
Guide  (in  The  Ring  ami  the  Book)  has  one  chance  given  him  by  the  stern 
merciful  justice  of  the  Pope.  But  Chiappino  slinks  out  of  sight,  the  vic- 
tim of  his  own  treachery,  and  we  realize  that  for  him  there  is  no  hope. 

ADDENDA. 

"Coi.ombe's  Birthday"  at  Boston  in  1854. — Since  the  above  pages 
were  in  type  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Lander 
(nee  Davenport),  who  took  the  part  of  the  heroine  in  the  performance  of 
Colombe's  Birthday  at  the  Howard  Athenaeum  in  Boston,  on  the  16th  of 
February,  1854.  As  it  was  the  last  night  of  her  engagement,  the  play  was 
given  only  once.  It  was  also  given  once  during  Miss  Davenport's  en- 
gagement in  Philadelphia,  on  the  31st  of  March,  1854 

Mrs.  Lander  has  kindly  marked  for  us  the  "  cuts"  in  the  play  as  per- 
formed in  1854.     They  were  as  follows  : 

Act  I.— Omit  lines  15,  16  (."That  .  .  .  bank");  36-38;  46,  47  ;  68-74; 
86  ;  88-90  ("  nor,  as  .  .  .  allowance  ");  93-96  ("  Things  .  .  .  came  ");  112- 


ADDENDA. 


245 


117;  1 4  \- 1 86  ("The  world  ...  themselves") ;  194;  197-200;  208-216; 
225-228;  230-238;  241,  242;  309-311;  342-347;  352-355;  357-364; 
365-367  ("or  I  shall  .  .  .  favor").  After  220  add:  "Valence  (outside). 
Give  place  !  I  must,  I  will  have  audience  !" 

Act  II. — Omit  lines 90-94 ("She  was  ...  them?");  99- m  ;  138-141; 
148-150  ("Take  ...  lady !");  169-173;  199-201;  220-227;  238-240 
("Sir,  and  you  .  . .  with  ");  250-252;  257-262;  302-313;  328-331  ("Let 
him  .  .  .  steadfastly");  337. 

Act  III.— Omit  lines  68-75  ("Meantime  .  .  .  Prince!");  77-84  ("Say 
...  no  doubt!"),  108-112;  124;  129,  130;  220-224;  227  ("Me  .  .  .  speak 
to — ");  233-246;  258,  259  ("And,  where  .  .  .  plash");  262;  264;  284- 
303  ("Pray  . .  .  Guibert!");  305-310  ("Ah,  light  .  .  .  friend");  315-321 ; 
326-328  ("Ere  you  .  .  .  perchance");  330 ;  332-339;  369-376. 

Acr  IV.— Omit  lines  1— 91 ;  106;  109-113;  141-144  ("You  shall  .  .  . 
Propose!");  157-159;  162;  164-169;  171-173  ("He'd  hesitate  ...  ac- 
cept me");  178-181  ("How  go  .  .  .  sire!");  186;  209;  212-222;  224, 
22;  ("A  beggar's  .  .  .  quits");  226-237  ("nor  .  .  .  prosper");  242-248 
( "  his  step  . . .  invincibility  ") ;  365  ;  386-389  ;  402-404  ("  All 's  cleared . . . 
Judge  you  ").     Lines  406-410  are  modified  thus : 

"What  all  will  shout  one  day.— All  is  said. 
Look  on  me  and  him.     Decide 
Between  the  emperor  and  the  man—and  speak  1" 

Act  V.— Omit  lines  2;  5:9;  16-20 ;  33-44;  64-66;  69;  71-76  ("And 
for.,  .dirt");  107-116;  126-129;  139-141 ;  I44~'49  ("I  shall ...  serve") ; 
187-190  ("Both  ...  for  this!");  205-207;  209-213;  217,  218  ("In  mind 
.  .  .  birthright");  219-221  ("not blot  .  .  .  offer");  224-233 ;  235;  242-246 
("  Out ...  not  yet !") ;  248-250  ("  You've  .  . .  dumb  ") ;  258-266  ("  Sup- 

("What  .  .  . 
retaining  "  For 
After  353  add: 
"  I  let  the  emperor  go,  and  take  the  man." 

The  above  includes  all  the  omissions  and  alterations  worth  noting.  A 
few  changes  in  a  word  or  two  are  passed  by. 

The  representation  of  the  play  occupied  two  hours,  including  the  usual 
intervals  between  acts. 


INDEX  OF  WORDS  AND  PHRASES   EXPLAINED. 


advocators,  243. 
after  (  a  afterwards),  243. 
Aix,  232. 

Amelius.  232,  237. 
Argenta,  242. 
arrow-hand,  223. 

11  .  234- 
autumn  floats  of  pine  wood, 

229. 
ave-bell.  241. 

Bacchant,  22s. 

Barnabite,  240. 

bear  a  brain,  330, 

Berthold.  237. 

bower  (     chamber),  224. 

lx>w  hand.  223. 

brave  (    beautiful),  237. 

bravery,  222. 

brazen  self,  236. 

Brutus  the  Elder,  242. 

burgraves,  235. 

cappings,  229. 

cast  (--couple),  222. 

chamberlain,  232. 

chrysoprase.  235. 

church-flowers,  231. 

Cleves.  22^. 

Clugnet,  232. 

crab,  222. 

crest  (verb',  231. 

cur  frtmnere  gtwet  t  243. 

demean  herself,  23s. 
diamond  scales,  224. 
dico  vobis.  242. 
diffused  (accent),  226. 

emprise,  234. 
express  (accent),  228. 
expressless,  223. 


extreme  (accent),  228. 
eyass,  222. 

Faenza,  241. 
fascination,  by,  241. 
fiery  centre,  236. 
fight- mark,  224. 
foredone,  227. 

gadge,  242. 

gauntlet-gatherer,  241. 
gentles,  231. 
God's  Mother,  231. 
grade  1     step),  236. 
grew  (adjective  ?),  235. 
gules,  227. 

had  better,  242. 
hawks,  your,  222. 
heading  nor  hanging,  243. 
herald,  222. 

ill-success,  242. 

Juliers,  228. 

landgraves,  235. 

leash  ( -  three  hounds),  222 

losels,  225. 

Lugo,  242. 

marcasite,  230. 
markgraves,  235. 
marshal,  232. 
masque,  227. 
Maufroy,  229. 
mercy  stroke,  123. 
mere  legs-and-arms,  232. 
Mildred  is  fourteen,  223. 
mummery,  229. 

Nepomuc  St.  John,  242. 


ceconomy.  232. 

of  all  men  else,  228. 

pageant -world,  227. 
pill  and  poll,  229. 
pillared  flame,  233. 
pou rsui van t,  221. 
Priscilla,  238. 
profane  vulgar,  244. 
proper  (=  comely),  222. 

Ravestein,  228. 

St.  Nepomucene,  242. 
Salic  law,  229. 
San  Cassiano,  242. 
San  Nicolo,  242. 
smarting-while,  235. 
step  or  stalk.  236. 
seneschal,  232. 
starrier  eye.  222. 
supporter  (heraldic),  222. 
surprise  the  angels,  to,  239. 
sut  sum  corda,  230. 

thicks  (-  thickets),  222. 
thumbscrews,  24^. 
to  duly  enforce,  244. 
to  merely  have.  224. 
to  newly  consider,  243. 
to  only  signify.  22;. 
to  tamely  acquiesce  239. 
trip- hook,  242. 
truncheon,  233. 

vine-leaf  wrappage  of  trib- 
ute-penny, 229. 

western  lauds,  243. 
wimple,  225. 
would  better,  243. 


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AMERICAN      LITERATURE 


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PRIMER  OF  ESSENTIALS  IN 
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INTRODUCTORY     COURSE 
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■■T^?^""*"** 


